Porcelain
by postcardfromsomewhere
Summary: Harry Styles has hit an all new low, and it's up to Louis Tomlinson to fix him. But what people don't know is that Harry Styles is fragile. Is Louis Tomlinson really the one to do the job? Larry Stylinson. One Direction. AU.
1. Prologue

"Who the _fuck_ is he?"

I stood frozen at the doorway with my suitcase in hand, glancing nervously at the boy who glared at me from his place on his couch. The boy, who looked not older than seventeen, had dark curly hair that was covered by a beanie, and a cigarette that teased the ends of his fingers. I scrunched up my nose at the smell of the smoke he blew towards me. A sense of annoyance already for this person, who I barely knew, rouse through me.

"My name," I answered for the tall, business type man standing next to me who the misfit directed his obscenity towards, "Is Louis Tomlinson."

The boy eyed me up and down, a half interested, half annoyed eyebrow shooting up on his good features. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew out excess smoke. He turned to the man next to me again, ignoring me completely,

"Is this some sort of _joke_?" He pointed at me with a ring clad finger.

I looked up at the man, whose eyes narrowed at the boy. His lips were set in a straight line, but his eyes sparkled with amusement, as if he knew my presence would annoy him, "Not at all."

"I'm not living with him." He said with a slight laugh, and so matter of fact and that it caught me off guard.

"Tough shit," Said the man, whose name I still didn't know. He looked familiar enough; I just couldn't put my finger on it. Even after the two hour limo ride I had to endure with him to get to the…downsized flat I was currently standing in, "You're not legal," He continued, "and since Ami isn't here—"

"_Don't _say his name!" The boy shouted, shoving his cigarette onto the table in protest and standing up from the run down couch. I took a step back to stand behind the business man. As this happened, I was able to get a better look at the boy.

He was tall, maybe even a bit taller than me. His arms were now crossed across his chest, showing off his defined muscles and long forearms. He looked familiar enough—I had seen him on T.V. for years, with the band, but seeing him in person was a totally different experience. When they say the camera adds ten pounds, they weren't kidding: This kid was practically skin and bones.

By now, the business man held up his hands in defense, "Fine, Harry. Since _he's_ been gone, you've been living on your own and making a complete ass of yourself. You need to get your shit together, and that's where he comes in." He said, pulling me by the shirt and thrusting me forward into his view.

Harry laughed out loud this time, not even trying to hide his amusement, "You're telling me this prep is going to help me?" He pointed at me and laughed again, turning around to sit back on the couch, "You're out your damn mind if you think that punk is going to be able to fix me."

This time, it was the business man's turn to laugh, and I looked at him, with a confused expression on my face. He patted my shoulder and squeezed it, "That's not the only reason he is here…"

"What are you on about?" His expression went blank. "You're not telling me he's the new guy, are you?"

"That's_ exactly_ what I'm telling you."

Harry shook his head in disbelief, "No…no! You can't just _replace_ him, Simon!"

A light bulb went off in my head. _Oh_. The man who brought me here was Simon Cowell. My thoughts were interrupted by Simon's booming voice,

"It's been 9 months, Harry. It's time to start over—"

"Well I don't want to start over! This is _bullshit_." He paused to light another cigarette and pace about, "Do the rest of them know-?"

"Of course they do!" Simon spat, as he pushed me aside to walk closer to Harry, "You were the last person I told. And the rest of them are fine with it, so why don't you make this easy and not make a fuss about it?"

Harry scoffed and shook his head. He threw his newly lit cigarette on the floor and pushed past the both of us, making a beeline for the front door and picking up his leather jacket off of the stair railing.

"Don't walk out, Harry!"

Harry turned on his black boot heel and gave Simon the middle finger, "Fuck. _Off_." He seethed. Then he turned to me, "You _better_ not be here when I get back." Before I even had time to blink, he slammed the front door closed.

The silence between Simon and I was brief before he spoke, "Well," He turned to me, "What do you think?"

I breathed, "I think…I'm screwed."

Simon laughed.

"Why didn't you tell him sooner? About me coming here?"

Simon blinked, "Well, it's not easy telling the most popular member of One Direction that the replacement for Ami Shane is a newbie." I shrugged, knowing that Harry Styles was probably the most memorable member of One Direction.

"And telling the others was easier?" I asked, feeling annoyed that Simon led me to this situation in the first place.

"It was, to be honest. But I don't think you understand the bond Ami and Harry had."

"Then explain it to me," I said harshly, pointing to the door, "Because meeting him was like walking through a ring of fire. I don't want to have to deal with that again. If he didn't want a replacement, why am I even here?"

Simon took a deep breath, "Because you are talented, Louis. And One Direction needs a fifth band member. This hiatus the boys have been on has been killing my sales—"

"So now I'm just a business deal?" I snapped, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the contract I signed a mere four hours ago.

"Don't think of it that way—I make my decisions very carefully. Out of thousands of auditions, I remembered you. Give me some credit, here."

I sighed and stuffed my hands into my pockets, but nodded. "So, I have some big shoes to fill?"

"Don't you watch T.V.? Ami Shane was the biggest talent to walk through the X Factor." I narrowed my eyes at Simon's comment. Of course I knew that. Ami Shane, the late fifth member of One Direction, did have the biggest voice of the group. However, it was also very clear that Harry and Ami had the closest relationship of the five boys—they were inseparable up until Ami's untimely death.

I nudged Simon and gave him a knowing look, "You know what I mean…"

He nodded in understanding, "Ah yes, well, don't expect to be Harry's next best friend overnight. He won't budge that easily."

I groaned, "Then I'll make sure to steer his path, then."

"Don't bother. You're living with him now."

"And why is that, exactly?" I asked, now genuinely confused, "Is this some sort of new kid initiation or some shit? Because if it is, I'm _not_ buying it."

Simon sighed, "You're here because he is underage. He needs a guardian—someone to look after him."

"So get Daddy Direction to do it. I'm not down for living with someone who hates me." I said darkly, referring to Liam Payne, another member of One Direction, who was known to look after and take care of all of the other members.

Simon shook his head and buttoned up his coat, "Harry hates _everyone_, Louis. So he might as well live with someone he doesn't know; someone who actually has a shot at becoming someone he can trust."

He made his way towards the door and I followed, "That's not going to happen."

Simon opened the door and turned around before exiting, "Give it a chance, Louis. Harry was happy once, it's statistically proven that he can be happy again." He paused and looked around the dirty flat, nodding his head towards the spiral staircase that led to a platform with three doors, "Your room is up there, at the end of the left wing." I nodded and he waved, "Good luck."

And then he left, leaving me to an empty flat and anxiously awaiting the flat mate who would most likely kill me if he saw me still standing where he left me.

* * *

><p>I took a good hour to look around the flat I would be living in for the contracted amount of years. And to be honest, what I was seeing wasn't too bad.<p>

The flat was large and spacious, and very modern in terms of style—but this would only be noticed if one were to really look. At a quick glance, the flat looked filthy as anything. Red cups and beer cans were strewn everywhere and the floor was covered with dirt and leaves that entered the house when one walked in. The couch was littered with Harry's clothes—black jeans, black shirts, black shoes, and other types of clothing wear.

I frowned and decided against trying to clean up the place, figuring if Harry didn't want me there in the first place; he probably wouldn't be too keen on me picking up after him. I lifted my suitcase up off of the floor and trotted up the stairs and to my room, which seemed to be the only decent room in the flat.

I dropped my suitcase and flopped onto my bed, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the day I had had.

Getting up at the crack of dawn, being flown into a secret location to meet more people in suits and sign the contract, guaranteeing me five years with One Direction, as well as a guaranteed living space.

It was then, after things were signed, that I met up with Simon (still not knowing who he was, which, looking back, I still feel stupid about) and we began our decent to the flat.

Once my head hit the soft fluffy pillow, and my eyes began to feel heavy, and after thinking about the weight of the day (and now knowing what I was getting myself into with Harry) I shut my eyes, drifting off into a dreamless slumber.

I woke up to the front door being slammed shut. My eyes shot open and I sat upright on my bed. I took in my surroundings, a bit confused as to where I was. Then I remembered—I was living with Harry Styles.

_Well,_ I thought,_ I_ _might as well get this over with._

I got off of my bed and walked out of my room, only to see a stumbling Harry at the top of the steps, an open flask in his hands.

Our eyes met, and for the first time, I actually looked at his face. Before he had stormed out, I only got a good look at him from far away—a general glance.

But now I could see _everything_: The dark circles under his eyes, the minimal scruff that was forming on his chin, and the paleness of his skin. And also, the cold stare his was giving me through his green orbs.

"I told you I didn't want you here."

His voice was low and deep, but it didn't intimidate me as I suspect he thought it would.

"Well I'm a part of this band now. And I have to live somewhere."

"You can stay in the backyard then—I don't _want_ you in this flat."

"Too bad I'm contracted to stay." I fought back.

At this Harry laughed sarcastically and leaned against the handrail, "And since when has _anyone_ ever stuck to their contract?"

"Well maybe you should start."

"Not likely. If you haven't noticed, I'm not one to follow rules."

"Clearly." I said, pointing to the flask in his hands. Harry looked down and rolled his eyes.

"Are you gunna get on my ass about this too? I don't need another person chewing me out for all of the shit I decide to do with my life. That's what Liam's for." He took a large swig of his flask, making sure to look me in the eye as he did so.

I crossed my arms, "Well I have rules."

"You think I'll listen to them?"

"I think you have no choice."

Harry smirked and walked in front of me and looking me straight in the eye—as if he were challenging me. But I wasn't going to back down.

"Why's that?" He asked darkly, searching my face for insecurities, "What makes you think I'll listen to _you_, let alone your rules?"

"Because then you'll be out of the band."

"I can live without this band." He said, almost in a weak tone, but only a person who was really listening would be able to detect it. "I think you're full of shit." He added, puffing out his chest and taking another swig of his drink.

"I think the same of you." I said immediately, stepping towards him so our noses were almost touching, "I think this pissed off act is what I implied—an act. Trying to get attention because you lost someone—"

"_Don't_ say his name—!"

"Just because _Ami died_, doesn't mean—"

A millisecond after the words slipped from my tongue, I felt the wind get knocked out of me as pain soared through my spine, and I realized Harry had pinned me against a wall.

I opened my eyes, only to be met with his piercing through me. They say looks could kill? Well, if that's the case, I'd be dead three times over.

Harry's breathing was fast and his voice was a low whisper when he spoke, "You want your fucking rules? Fine. You can have them, I don't care. But if we're going to live in this hellhole, I want a few of my own rules." He said the last word with a mocking tone, and it took all I had not to push him off me.

However, I blinked and took a deep breath, my eyes never leaving his. He spoke again, "The first: you stay out of my fucking way. We make nice for public appearances—pretend we are the best of friends, and make believe for a second I am glad you're joining the band. But once the cameras are off, that bullshit is _done_." At this, he gripped my shoulder; his fingers squeezing it until I was sure he would leave a black and blue. He sneered at me and brought his face closer to mine,

"And second: you don't ever, and I mean_ ever_, say _his_ name. Do you understand?" I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he spoke, and I realized that his question was actually a threat. What would he do to me if I broke his 'rules'? What would he do if I spoke his name?

I was terribly afraid to know the answer.

"Fine. I get it." I finally said, trying to release the nerves I was feeling as I spoke.

"Great." He released my shoulder harshly and began to walk away.

"Hey! You don't know my rules, yet." I said without thinking, and once I did, I immediately regretted it.

He turned on his heel, the leather boot making a squeaky noise against the tile floor.

"Let me guess," He said, mocking me, "You don't want me to smoke in the house? No drinking, no parties, and always be on time?"

I was surprised, but I didn't want him to see any other emotion other than anger from me, so I just nodded curtly. "P—pretty much."

"Fine. But just because I don't do that shit here, doesn't mean I'm not going to do it at all."

"Honestly, I really don't care."

"_Perfect_."

"Fantastic."

And then he was gone. He slipped into his room and shut the door behind him, leaving me standing against a wall, wondering just what the hell I had gotten myself into.


	2. Chapter One

At first, I thought living with Harry would be incredibly difficult—I was expecting him to come into the house in the wee hours of the morning, drunk, knocking over expensive glass vases, and making even more of a mess in our flat.

However, those expectations never came…mostly because Harry hardly came by the flat. And I suspect this behavior didn't start until I started living there.

Sure, I saw him, but briefly, and it's not like he ever gave me a proper greeting. In fact, he hardly acknowledged my existence when he was around. And I was perfectly fine with that.

Since I had moved in, I had a bit of a break before I had to meet the rest of the boys in the band—they were all still on holiday since they were still technically on a hiatus, and they weren't due back until two days after my initial arrival. So, with that in mind, and no one to disturb me, I took to my journal.

The black, leather journal traveled with me everywhere I went. In it contained some of my most painful memories and pictures I'd collected over the years; but mostly in contained unfinished song lyrics.

Writing songs was something that came easily to me—it calmed me down when I was sad or pissed off and normally by the end, the result of my agony would be a pretty decent song.

So one can imagine the amount of song writing I had been doing since I moved into the flat.

However, the loveliness of it all was short lived when I received a simple phone call from Simon,

"Lou?" He asked when I picked up.

"Yes?"

"The boys are stopping by to meet you. Make sure Harry is there."

I sighed, "How the hell am I supposed to do that? I haven't seen him in hours."

Simon groaned, "Figure it out. You all have an interview in a few hours and I need everyone at the offices in London!"

"London!"

"Very good, I'm glad you can hear." Simon muttered sarcastically, obviously getting annoyed.

"Shut up." I growled.

"Ooh, sounding a bit like Harry. Has the bad boy rubbed off on you?"

Suddenly the door cracked open and I looked over from my seat at the kitchen bar, and I sighed in relief as I saw Harry drop his leather jacket on the floor.

"Speak of the devil. He just got home." I said into the phone.

"Simon?" Harry asked with a cold stare and a blunt voice, walking to the fridge and pulling out a beer.

"Yes," I said curtly, covering up the speaker when I spoke to him, "And the boys are on their way over. And we have an interview in London," I nodded to the beer in his hands, "So think wisely on that."

Harry rolled his eyes and his lips formed into a thin line. He shoved the beer back into the fridge and slammed the door closed.

"Louis?"

"Yes Simon, I'm here."

"Did Harry just walk in?"

"Yup."

"Put him on the phone."

I nodded and looked to Harry, giving him a knowing look. His eyes grew wide and he shook his head.

"Fuck _that_."

"Just take the phone." I said, sticking my phone out to him.

"Tell him to suck my dick." Harry's voice boomed into the speaker this time, and he walked out of the kitchen and up the spiral staircase. I shook my head,

"You hear that?"

Simon groaned on the other end, "I did." I could tell he sounded exhausted, "Just tell him to be ready for when the boys get there."

"Will do."

"Alright."

Then he hung up.

It was only a few minutes later that Harry returned downstairs, now dressed and ready for the interview. He was in the usual attire I had seen him sporting since I met him—all black.

"If Simon says they are almost here," He grunted with no hint of empathy, "Then they are only a few minutes away."

"How do you know that?" I asked hastily. Just a few days ago, Harry had threatened me, and now suddenly, he was talking to me? Why? What was he getting at? And why, suddenly, did I feel the need to talk to him. Or better yet, why did I _want_ to talk to him?

"I've worked with him long enough, I know how he works." Harry answered, and he looked me up and down, eyeing my outfit, "Is _that_ what you are going to wear?"

I looked down at what I was wearing: A striped t-shirt, grey suspenders, and trousers with the ankles rolled up. My grey, everyday Toms were sitting by the front door.

I furrowed my brow, "What's the matter with it?"

Harry scoffed and rolled up his black sleeve up to his mid forearm, exposing his many bracelets, "You look like such a preppy boy."

I blinked. "And you look any better?" I snapped, "I seem to remember you sporting this type of clothes before-," I paused, making sure I watched what I said. Sure, he was talking to me, but his threat still lingered in my mind, "before _all of that_ happened." I finished, releasing a shallow breath.

My pause brought fear to Harry's eyes and he looked to the ground. I saw a flash of vulnerability cross his features, but it was quickly hidden with a scowl,

"When things change, so do people, as well as wardrobes. It's a fact of life, Tommo. Go through Zayn's tweets, I'm sure he's mentioned it once or twice," He said with a tone of coldness.

I shot him a confused look at the name he had given me, "_Tommo_?"

He looked back at me, "You got a problem with it?" He snapped.

"Not really, but why give me a nickname?"

"Why _not_?" He shot me a challenging eyebrow raise. The look shut me up for a few minutes, but a question still burned in me.

"What is this?" I asked suddenly.

"What is _what_?" Harry snapped.

"I thought you hated me."

He laughed coldly, "I do."

"So then why try to be nice to me?"

He gave me a look, "Do you _want_ me to be a complete dick to you?"

"Well, no." I said simply.

"Then don't question my actions."

"Don't you think I get a right to, seeing as your actions are directed towards _me_?" I was getting wound up now. If he was going to hate me, I'd rather he follow through instead of giving me mixed signals.

I was a poet at heart, but there's only so much a guy like me could take.

He sighed dramatically. Obviously, my questions were annoying him, "I'm being nice so it's easier to fake on camera. I'm being nice so it's easier to fake in front of the rest of the boys. I'm being nice so I don't have to _fucking_ sneak around this flat pretending to ignore you when you are around all of the damn time." He paused, "Does that answer your question?"

I nodded and there was a knock on the door. Harry sighed and turned to me, "Aren't you going to get it?"

"You lived here first." I answered.

He frowned, yet you could tell as he glided over to the door that he felt confident. He opened the door and I could see Liam, Niall and Zayn standing in the doorway.

I would imagine, after not seeing each other for nine months, that this moment would be one of reunion—one of joy. However, that wasn't what I was seeing. But then I realized the obvious—this was the first time the members of One Direction were all together without Ami Shane.

Niall walked up to Harry first and opened his arms, giving him a hug. Harry had always seemed so approachable on T.V., but in this case, he awkwardly patted Niall's back as the blonde clung to him. After a few more moments of the awkward embrace, and some muttered whispers into Harry's ear, Niall let go and Zayn walked up, patting Harry on the shoulder.

"Harry." He greeted, giving him a small yet odd smile.

"Zayn." Harry returned, nodding his head and looked at the ground.

Finally, Liam walked up to Harry, his face solemn. They looked at each other before Liam spoke,

"You good, Harry?"

"_Fucking_ _super_." He drawled sarcastically, which earned a hitched breath from Liam. Harry rolled his eyes and turned back to me, getting everyone in the room to look in my direction. Liam's frown turned to a smile when he saw me, and he enthusiastically walked over with open arms,

"Ah! So you must be Louis. Nice to meet you, finally! I'm Liam." He stuck out his hand and I shook it, my smile matching his.

"You, too." I said, and right after, Niall wrapped his arms around my shoulder,

"Hi mate. I'm Niall. Welcome to the band! We get pretty crazy, just a fair warnin'!"

I nodded, "I can see that. Thanks—"

"Do you have any food?" He asked suddenly, almost whispering in my ear as if no one was supposed to know if he was hungry.

"Erm, I think so-?"

"Niall!" Zayn said, walking over to us and patting his shoulder, "Down boy. You've only just met him, don't scare him off." He stuck his hand out,

"Hello. I'm Zayn. Welcome to the band."

"Thanks." I said, returning the warm smile he gave me. I was starting to feel as if things were starting to turn around when a voice boomed from the front door,

"Hey, _dipshits_, our car is here."

The four of us turned to the door, and saw Harry throwing on his leather jacket. He shot us all an impatient look, "Well come on, then. I don't have all bloody fucking day!"

I heard a collective groan from the three other boys, and they followed him, and I felt Niall release his hold on me; "Come on then." He said, "Don't want to piss him off." He offered a comforting smile and I took it, grabbing my jacket and slipping on my Toms before slamming the door shut behind me.

We all climbed into the car, and the ride was…awkward and silent, to say the least. I tend to drift to sleep on and off during car rides, so when I woke up, it was quite a while later and we were pulling up to the offices where our interview would be held.

* * *

><p>As we parked and the boys exited the car, I felt a firm grip on my wrist. The fingers felt familiar to me—digging into the skin of my wrist as they did my shoulder.<p>

"Remember our rules," I heard Harry whisper into my ear, his cool breath giving me chills, "I hope you are good at acting. Put on a smile and get out of the car. Press will be waiting for us."

He released his hold on me by thrusting my arm away from him and he opened the door, revealing the tons of press that Harry was talking about. I took a deep breath and pulled down my sunglasses, following Harry quickly into the building, trying to ignore the millions of questions I was hearing being shout at me,

"_Louis Tomlinson! How does it feel to be the replacement for Ami Shane?"_

"_Do you think you can live up to all Ami has done?"_

"_How do you feel about taking the place of a dead band member?"_

"_Do you and the boys get on well?"_

"_Is living with Harry alright, then?"_

By the time I got into the building and almost colliding with Liam, my head was spinning.

Liam took note of this and clapped me on the shoulder, "It gets easier, mate." He said, following the rest of the boys down a long hallway.

I nodded and too followed Liam, knowing that I had a long day ahead of me.

"So Louis Tomlinson," The blonde, pretty woman said, scooting to the edge of her seat and leaning towards me. It was towards the middle of the interview now, and so far, things had gone pretty well. But this was the first question that had been completely directed towards me.

"Yeah?" I asked, eyeing the camera that was on me warily.

"I've been hearing from a few sources that you are a songwriter at best. Is there any truth to that?"

I nodded towards the interviewer overly excited woman; I think her name was Caroline, "Yes. I am. I've been writing ever since I could remember."

She nodded enthusiastically, smiling broadly and showing off her white teeth, "Do you think you could be writing the next single? What do you say boys? Think he has what it takes?"

I shot my glance straight to Harry's direction first, and just like he had been the whole interview, he grinned a smile so enticing I almost wished he would do it more often…if it weren't for the fact he made it known he disliked me.

The rest of the boys followed and Zayn answered, "I think it's a great possibility. We love being involved with every aspect of making an album."

"And I'm glad you do so." Caroline smiled, and Harry wrapped his arm around my shoulders, squeezing my sore shoulder hard, like it was a reminder that regardless of what he said now, his threat was still live.

"I agree," Harry grinned at Caroline, who seemed to be eye-raping him during the entire interview which made me slightly uncomfortable, "I think any song that's written by Louis will be great!" That fake smile of his even had me fooled, and I couldn't help but play along.

"Speaking of writing songs, Harry," Caroline paused and studied him, "I know that was something you and Ami used to do, before he passed."

I felt Harry's grip on me tighten, and I fought hard not to wince in pain as my shoulder was still sore. He moved his arm from my shoulder to my back, squeezing the fabric of my shirt…as if it were the only thing he had left to cling onto. Like he was…_desperate_, like he needed me.

Or something.

His stone face was only noticeable for a second before he eased up a bit, trying to play the cameras, "Yes, Ami and I…we…we wrote some songs together."

Caroline frowned sympathetically, "I'm sure you all miss him very dearly."

The boys nodded, and I felt Harry's grip loosen, but it was still firm. I looked at him and saw he was looking down in…shame? Sadness? He was vulnerable again, and I was surprised to see I was the only one who noticed these moments. But again, it was only for a brief window of time, before he smiled slightly,

"So much. He was a great friend and a great band mate."

"He will be missed by everyone here in the studio, and he is irreplaceable, but it seems Louis will make a great addition to the band!" Caroline grinned again, her smile becoming increasingly more annoying with every one she stuck on her face.

"Definitely," Niall said, patting my knee, "He's a great lad, and we can't wait to work with him!

"I'm sure," Caroline grinned again, "Well, it seems that's all the time we have for today, fellas. Thank you for making time to talk to us, and good luck with your projects for the future!"

We all nodded and kissed Caroline goodbye, and I got another shoulder hug from Harry.

But that was before the cameras turned off and the lights went down. Then, that little moment where I thought Harry actually meant everything he said, was completely washed away when he shoved me away from him and stood up, muttering something about taking a cigarette outside.

I frowned as he walked away. I had the urge to talk to him—to make sure he was okay. It was odd, to suddenly have a sense of caring for someone who claimed to hate you. I don't know why I did—maybe it was because I couldn't help it—but all I knew was that Harry was probably hurting. But if he didn't want me to talk about Ami, I'm sure he didn't want anyone else to.

I felt a strong hand on my shoulder, and I turned to see Simon standing behind me, "I didn't expect her to ask that of him."

I nodded, "I feel so…so…"

"Horrible?" Simon finished.

"Yes."

"So do I. He claims to hate everyone, and I told you he did, Louis. But…I don't think it's possible for someone who was once so happy—so full of love—to really feel that much anger towards anyone."

"It's possible." I shrugged. "Things change, and so do people." As soon as I voiced the words, I knew they had come from Harry.

Simon, however, grinned, "You been reading Zayn's tweets, have you?" I laughed, but was interrupted when Harry stalked through the door, his eyes red and his cheeks flushed,

"The _hell _was that, Simon?" He almost shouted. We were still in the studio and there were still a few crew members around, so people were staring, "I thought you made it clear to her not to bring _him_ up!"

"I'm sorry, Harry. You know how Caroline is…she doesn't listen—"

"I don't care! She should have known better. You should have known better to drill it into her thick _fucking_ skull that I don't talk about him ever. Not in public."

"I know—"

"I want her fired. I never want to talk to her again if she's going to bring _him_ up—"

"Harry! Relax." Simon put a firm hand on his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. At the sight of him Harry calmed down and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He looked at me.

"And _you_." He spat. "Since when did _you_ write songs?"

I took a step towards him, "Since forever. I've—I've always written songs—"

"Well if you think you're writing any songs for this band, you are out of your mind—"

"Actually, Harry, he's not." Simon cut in, standing between us.

"What?" We asked simultaneously, a strained, aggravated look crossing Harry's face.

Simon took a breath and nodded, placing a hand on each of our shoulders, "Yes. Harry, you mentioned that anything Louis wrote would be great on air—"

"Who gives a flying fu-!"

"So I think it's a good idea if he did write one."

"You're _kidding_?" We both spoke in unison again, and it earned a glare from Harry.

Simon gave us a perplexed look, "I'm not. And in fact, I want you two to write it together."

I didn't say anything at first, because to be honest, the opportunity to write a song, and with Harry Styles, one of the better songwriters in the country, was amazing.

But then I thought of Harry. And of Ami Shane. And how much more Harry probably hated me now.

Yup, I was screwed.

Surprisingly, Harry hadn't spoken; instead, he stared at Simon, with an unidentifiable look in his eye.

"Harry?" Simon finally asked, "What do you say?"

I noticed that Harry had his hands balled up into fists, and he was pinching his skin so hard I could see his knuckles turning white.

No, this was not good.

Instead of speaking, Harry shook his head, ruffled his hair and pinched the bridge of his nose before heading for the exit door,

"Harry, wait-!" Simon called.

"If you know what's good for you," Harry said in a dark, threatening tone, "You'll leave me the fuck alone."

And then again, in a second, he was gone.

Simon shot me a look and gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, "Well that went well." He said sarcastically as he staring at where Harry once stood.

"Probably wasn't the best time to give him the news." I offered.

Simon shrugged, "Would have gotten the same reaction either way." He sighed defeated and pushed me towards the exit, "Go on then, your car is waiting to take you back to your flat."

"What about Harry?"

Simon shook his head sadly, "He'll find his way back on his own. No use in worrying about him when he doesn't want us to."

He then disappeared into a doorway, leaving me to find my way back to the car waiting in the car park to take me home.

* * *

><p>Once I got back to my flat, it was 7 PM. Realizing Harry wouldn't be coming home, if at all, I settled for making my own dinner and relaxing on the couch. I settled comfortably and my mind ran over the events of the day.<p>

But mostly, they were stuck on Harry.

What was so difficult about writing a song? Did he really have that much of a problem with me that he couldn't do a simple task like that? If he really didn't want me to write with him, one of us could just write it. Surely, he could see that. We were both talented enough.

Or did this lie deeper?

Something was telling me that Ami was a major role in Harry's behavior. And to be honest, I still didn't know the cause of his death. On T.V., they had only mentioned he passed, and no cause could be found, which I knew was complete bullshit. But I never questioned this. And Harry would be the wrong person to ask.

Still, what effect did Ami have on Harry? Surely they were close, and yes, people grieve differently, but one would think after nine months that they would be able to move on.

Right?

But why did I suddenly care so much? Why was Harry's behavior and the way he was acting towards me really bothering me? Was it because I wanted to help him? Did I want to be the person that fixed Harry?

But why? To better myself? Or him? Or both of us?

And the interview: I knew I wasn't off—Harry couldn't have been _pretending_ to like me that entire time. It only takes so much control to do that, and based off past experiences with him, that can't possibly be the case.

What the hell is he trying to get at?

My thoughts began to get jumbled together, and my eyelids started to get heavy as I thought of Harry, and Ami, and the song that would probably never get written.

I crawled deeper into the couch and let sleep take over, my head still filled with thoughts of the curly haired boy as my eyes finally shut closed.

It was about 2 AM when I woke up again, and I heard the door handle jiggle. I sat up from my sleeping position on the couch, only to be met with Harry in a drunken state.

He stared at me, and even though he was drunk, his eyes still told me he was pissed off from what happened earlier that day. He walked forward and clunked his keys on the table near the door, and I stood up when he almost fell forward,

"You need help?"

"Piss off." He grumbled, holding out his hands and closing his eyes, as if he couldn't hold them open anymore.

I walked towards him and was able to reach him just before he completely doubled over and fell to the ground. I eased him back upright and dragged him to the couch, sitting him there.

"I don't need your help." He slurred, "And I don't need you to write a song with me."

"I never said you did." I replied, heading to the kitchen to pour a glass of water for him.

He grumbled and leaned forward completely, his head lolling to the side. I immediately brought the water over to him and sat him upright, making sure he was still awake.

He shoved me away when he opened his eyes, sending the cup of water flying out of my hands and onto the floor. It landed with a crash and we both winced at the sound.

"Get off me." He muttered, pushing me again and curling up on the couch, "New rule: Don't touch me."

I held up my hands in defense, "Fine. But I get to make a new rule too—no coming home drunk at 2 AM anymore."

"What are you, my _mother_?"

"Might as well be, eh? You already got a dad in Liam; maybe you need a mom in me."

"Not likely." He burped and lay on his back, "Well I know of one rule we don't need to make."

I had to smile at his tone. He was angry, yes, but his tone was calm—I'm sure it was the alcohol talking, "What?"

"No girls."

I spun my head to face him, "Why wouldn't we need to make that rule? Who's to say I wouldn't want to bring a girl around?" I asked, feeling nervous and anxious.

At this Harry giggled—yes, giggled, damn drunk—and nodded towards me, "Oh please. It's so obvious, what with the clothes, and the hair, and just everything about you—"

"_What_ is so obvious?" I asked, letting my nerves get the better of my voice.

"That you're gay." He said simply.

Now, I don't take my sexuality very lightly, I mean, I do, but, I don't at the same time. It's a part of me—a part of who I am. It's not a part, actually, it _is_ me. I love myself. I love the way I am.

But the way Harry spoke to me was as if he was looking down on me, as if I was…pathetic. I can take him digging on me for some things, but not this.

I glared at him and he half smiled at me from his laying position on the couch, "Why do you make it seem like such a shitty thing?" I asked harshly.

His eyes widened when I spoke, seeming surprised by my tone, "No. It's not shitty."

"So why are you digging me for it, then?" I asked, getting more and more defensive by the second.

"I'm not. Jesus Christ, will you _relax_?"

I inhaled sharply and ran my fingers through my hair. I sighed. He was drunk, and probably didn't know what he was saying. And hopefully, he'd forget this conversation in the morning.

"So you say the rule we wouldn't need to make is no girls? Why don't _you_ want them over, then?" I asked.

Harry shrugged and smirked, "They don't interest me."

I nodded curtly, a wave of understanding washing over me, "So what you're saying is…" I drifted off, trying to see if I was correct.

Harry grinned, "I like dick over pussy, yes."

At this we both laughed: because he was so blunt and so drunk, you couldn't help but double over. Again, I was getting the feeling that he was being genuine—the same feeling I got during the interview. Maybe Simon was right, maybe he really _didn't_ hate everyone. After a few moments of giggling, he spoke again in a thoughtful tone, but you could tell what he was saying was the alcohol talking,

"You're so much like him, you know."

"Like who?"

"Like Ami."

I froze as the name slipped from his lips. Harry didn't seem to notice; he smiled dreamily as he spoke his name, his eyes twinkling with any spark of happiness he had left. I however, stood there in shock.

_Did he really just say his name? _

I shook my head of these thoughts. Act cool, Louis. I said to myself.

"How am I like him?" I asked thoughtfully, taking a seat on the couch next to him.

He blew a raspberry and shook his head, "I don't fucking know, man. Just. Everything. You dress like him, talk like him, you write songs too. Just…so alike." His words slurring.

Before I had time to speak, his face turned serious again, "But he's gone now. And you're here. And I fucking hate that you took his place—"

"I'm not trying to—"

"Cut the shit, preppy. You can talk all you want, but at the end of the day, that's what you did. You _replaced_ him." He spoke the words with such vile that if I touched them, I would have been poisoned.

I couldn't say much in response, so he continued, "I know we have to write that song together. Or else Buncle fucking Simon will stick a toy doll of me up my own ass. So, I'm going to take the shit and do it. But on top of our rules, I'm making another one."

I nodded, "Go on then." I said, afraid of what it would be.

He sat up and faced me, looking at me dead in the eyes, never blinking, "You have to swear on your life, on your mother's grave, that you will not-and I'm being serious-that you will _not_ fall in love with me."

I stared blankly at him—I would have laughed, but the sincerity in his tone and the coldness in his eyes warned me not to.

What a silly request. Asking me not to fall in love with him! So easy, so simple, and yet…the almost pleasing look on his face told me differently.

He was being serious. But why? And why was he asking me to fulfill this 'rule' ?

He continued to look at me and I knew I needed to respond soon. We needed to get the song done. I wasn't sure when, but it needed to be done, nonetheless.

And if agreeing to Harry's request was all it took—as simple and completely strange as it was—then I would do it.

I stuck out my hand and Harry took it, his cold hand fitting perfectly into mine. I shook it twice and nodded, "_I swear_."


	3. Chapter Two

The next few days went on as if I had never made any sort of promise to Harry. Because, like he did when I had first moved in and joined the band, he was _completely_ ignoring me.

And surprisingly, I was a bit put off by it. It was my own fault, really. I allowed myself to believe for a second that Harry was actually trying to get along with me (even though he was drunk). I was stupid enough to fail to remember that everything—every smile, every pat on the back, every emotion from him—was a lie.

Embarrassingly enough, it hurt me to have a person disregard me completely. And what's worse is that Daddy Direction was the first to take notice that something was off.

"Hey mate." He said quietly to me as I exited the offices building after a meeting we all had with our management. Niall, Zayn and Harry were ahead of us—Niall taking time to take a bite out of an apple, and Zayn and Harry lighting up cigarettes for themselves.

"'Ello Liam." I said smoothly, suddenly feeling very nervous.

Liam nodded towards Harry, "How's he doing?"

I shrugged in response. I couldn't tell Liam how he was doing because he was ignoring me, but I couldn't let Liam know that—everything was supposed to be fake. I wasn't quite sure if I wanted Liam to know about the rules Harry and I had set up. And to be fair, I wasn't sure if Liam really understood the transformation Harry had taken since they had last seen each other those nine months ago.

"He's fine, I guess. I really wouldn't know much—I've only just met him."

"Well he's changed, and not for the better." He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "I'm worried about him."

"I'm not surprised, _Daddy_." Liam shuddered at the nickname and I laughed as he slapped my sore shoulder. I winced slightly, but not enough for him to notice.

"Can you blame me?" He asked, "He was so different before Ami died. He's…a different person now." I shuddered at the name, and I felt like I did just a few nights ago when Harry spoke that name. But then I remembered that Liam didn't have that same connection Harry did to Ami. And it reminded me of something.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" I asked, casting a glance from him to Harry.

Liam nodded and I continued, "Why does…why does Harry not like to talk about Ami?"

Liam cast a sad look to his friend, who was now heading into the car following Zayn and Niall. He gripped my arm and we walked toward the car together. He spoke in a hushed voice,

"It's a long story. And it's not mine to tell." He said and looked around suspiciously and brought his head closer to mine and whispered to me, "And you won't ever find out unless Harry tells you. So I'm just going to warn you, Louis, as your friend—don't bring up Ami Shane…at all. Do you understand?"

I was taken aback by Liam's sincerity, but I nodded anyway and added, "I already know—Harry informed me."

Liam nodded, not bothering to inquire me any further. He put on a smile and patted me on the shoulder, "Well that's good. It's just a sore subject—more for some than for _others_, if you know what I mean." He gave me a sympathetic smile and we reached the car. We both jumped in and Harry eye's caught mine,

"What took you so long?" He demanded, stretching his legs so they rested on top of Zayn's.

"We were just talking about the next PR meeting," Liam said, the lie forming so easily.

Harry, however, wasn't buying it, "Bullshit." He said, and then looked at me, "Tell me preppy; what were you two talking about?"

He cast me a sinister look—it was almost threatening. He could tell Liam was lying, so he would probably know if I did, too. I didn't want to take the risk of telling him the truth—I was terribly afraid of what he was capable of—so I lied,

"The next PR meeting." I said, hoping my voice was convincible, "Liam and I were talking about carpool."

At this Harry glared at me and shot a similar look to Liam, before slouching even further in his seat and lowering his sunglasses over his eyes, "Whatever, pricks."

I let out a breath of relief and shot a thankful look to Liam, who nodded and began to stare blankly out the window.

* * *

><p>The car ride home was slow and boring, as they had been since I had started travelling with the boys. It was two hours later when Harry and I finally arrived at our flat. I waved a goodbye to the boys as they pulled away and followed Harry into the house. The slam the door made when he shut it behind him startled me. I turned around and Harry was facing me.<p>

"Simon pulled me aside today." He stated.

I crossed my arms, getting defensive and ready for any jab he was going to throw at me, "So?"

He rolled his eyes, "He asked us how our song was coming."

I let my arms fall to my sides, "Oh."

"I told him we hadn't started. And he flipped a shit, of course. And told us we had better start today." I shot him a look,

"So…we need to start today, then." I stated.

"Guess so."

My eyes widened with surprise—he was _agreeing_ with me? I was surprised he hadn't forced me to write the song alone, or better yet, completely leave the flat in protest.

"Really?" I asked, still shocked by his response.

He rolled his eyes and threw his jacket at my chest, stalking over to the living room and grabbing a pen out of a table drawer,

"Yes, really. I actually like writing songs." He paused, "I just don't want to write one with you."

"Trust me," I seethed, forgetting ever having hope of becoming his friend, "The feeling is mutual."

"Wonderful." He smiled sarcastically and I fought the urge to smile back—it was just so infectious, god damn it.

I watched as he grabbed a piece of paper from the drawer and he started humming to himself. He stopped abruptly after a few moments and cleared his throat,

"I'm not going to fucking write this by myself. I'm not your _bitch_, Tommo."

"And I'm not yours."

He rolled his eyes, "No need to be defensive. Let's just write this so we can be done with it and I don't have to be around you for more than I have to."

"Fine." I stalked over to the couch, opposite the one Harry was occupying, making sure to grab my journal off of the kitchen counter and placing his jacket on it before I curled up onto the couch.

I opened my journal to a fresh page and turned to Harry, "What is this song supposed to be about?"

Harry scoffed and crossed off something he had been writing and gave me a look, "Have you _not_ listened to our fucking album?"

"I have—"

"Then you know what kinda song we have to write," He spoke through gritted teeth as he continued to cross off words on his page, "Stupid. Boy bad. Love. _Shit_."

I nodded in understanding and looked down to my blank page, "Oh."

He didn't respond and I started writing down some ideas, becoming increasingly aware of Harry's presence. I knew it wasn't true, but I felt as though he was…watching me, and criticizing every move I made.

I continued to jot down ideas, but after a few moments, I got a bit stuck. All of the love songs that I had ever heard were the same—it was hard to come up with new material when everything else had been overdone and replayed. Though, I guess, coming from a boy band, those types of songs must be expected of us. I tapped my pen to my chin repeatedly, trying to think of different ideas and concepts, when suddenly,

"_Would you cut that out_?"

I turned my head and Harry was glaring at me.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, genuinely confused.

When he didn't respond, I shrugged and continued my business—little quirks included, when he shouted again,

"Seriously, _preppy_, can't you hear? I told you to _cut the shit_."

"What are you talking about?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply, "The tapping. Of that fucking pen. It's…its distracting me!"

I looked down at my pen, which was pressed against my chin. _Oh_.

"Sorry." I paused, and suddenly I felt anger well up in me. Harry Styles was so irritating, and I was starting to resent him for his bad mouth and rude comments, "You need to relax, dude."

He froze, his pen not moving from his paper, "Don't tell me to relax." He said darkly.

"Why not? You tell me to do shit all the time, why can't I return the favor?"

"Because you are new, and no one respects you." He said coldly.

I felt my blood boil and I snapped my journal shut quickly. I stood up and slammed my journal down on the couch, which caused Harry to snap his head in my direction,

"_You_ may not respect me, but there are more people that respect me over you."

At this Harry scoffed and leaned back in the couch, spreading his arms over the base and letting his foot rest on his knee. He was mocking me again.

"Enlighten me—who are these people?"

I shrugged, "Only the people that matter when it comes to your career."

"Do you think I really care anymore?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow, "In case you haven't noticed, I don't really give a shit what anyone else thinks about me."

"Oh but I think you do." I said suddenly, "I think you're just very good at hiding it."

Harry swallowed thickly and he broke eye contact with me for a second—another moment of weakness—before glaring at me again. He stood up and walked over to me, clenching my bad shoulder again and adding more damage to the nerves that were already there, "Listen," He drawled, "I'm going to make myself very clear: you _don't_ know me. And don't plan on getting to know me, because that ship sailed when you walked through that door and took…_his_ place. I want nothing to do with you, but our rules still stand. Got it?"

I gripped his wrist, feeling the coolness of his skin as my hand brushed it, and shoved it off of my shoulder. I rubbed the soreness a bit and we continued to glare at each other, until finally I spoke, remembering the promise I had made to him a few nights ago, "You make it _very_ easy to follow those rules."

His eyes eased up and I could see that he knew what I was talking about. Was that…hurt I saw in his face? Again, it was only for a millisecond of time before his brooding face took over. If he didn't want me to fall in love with him, he was making it very easy for me to do so. But if that were the case, why would he warn me about it? Why would he make me promise such a thing, if all he was going to do was treat me like the dirt he walked on?

He took a deep breath and took a few steps away from me, and when I expected a sarcastic jab or even a blow to the face, I didn't get one. Instead he clenched his fists so hard his knuckles were white. He turned on his heel and grabbed his jacket off of the kitchen counter.

A wave of guilt washed over me. I don't know why, but suddenly I felt bad for what I had said and implied. Maybe it was because I saw the hurt in his eyes, even if only for a fraction of a second. Maybe it was because I'm normally not one to intentionally hurt someone. But, at the same time, I wasn't aware Harry would be hurt by what I said. If he even was at all.

Man, that kid was _still_ a mystery.

I watched as he stalked towards the door, not forgetting to pick up his cigarettes at the table nearest the door,

"Hey," I said softly, "Where are you going?"

Harry pulled on his jacket and beanie and shot me a dark look, "Piss off."

And then he left, making sure to slam the door behind him.

* * *

><p>I'm a relatively light sleeper, so when Harry stumbled into the flat many hours later, my eyes snapped open. I tried to listen to see how drunk he was.<p>

I heard him drop his keys, and then his jacket and he mumbled incoherent syllables to himself as he tripped up the stairs.

Yeah, he was completely wasted.

No matter how pissed off he made me, or how rude he was to me, I was still a human being, and I still wanted to make sure he didn't bump his head or choke on his own vomit in a drunken stupor.

Therefore, when I heard his door slam shut and his tall frame fall onto his bread, causing his mattress springs to come to life, I was able to drift back into my dreamless slumber.

But it didn't last for very long.

I was awoken in the middle of the night by…by what seemed at first to be moaning. But as I regained consciousness I noticed they weren't moans—they were screams.

Gut wrenching, heart _ripping_ screams.

I immediately sprang from my room and bolted straight to Harry's room, where I knew the source of the screaming was. I was terrified for him—what was happening? Had he gotten hurt? Oh no…_was someone breaking in_?

I grabbed the doorknob and stormed into his room, expecting to find a mess of his room and a broken down, injured Harry. However, that isn't what I came to find.

Harry was in his bed, tossing and turning. He was no long screaming; however, he was muttering and whimpering, almost as if he were in pain, and his eyes were squeezed shut,

"No, no. Please. Not—not him. Take me. _Please, TAKE ME_!" And then I understood—Harry Styles was having a night terror.

And I realized, what I thought to be his screams were actually his pleas and sobs.

"Stop! Leave him! NO! _NO_!" Harry cried harder and he began tossing and turning violently again. His screams now were heart wrenching, and I had to do something to stop it. I climbed onto his bed and straddled him, trying to wake him up.

"Harry!" I said loudly, trying to get a hold of his arms that were flailing about.

"No! Stop! PLEASE!"

"Harry!"

"_No!_"

"HARRY!" I shook him and his eyes flew open, tears still streaming down his face. He looked at me with horrified eyes. He made to push me off of him, still with terror burning into his orbs.

"No, no, get off, please don't—" He whimpered, as if he were still in his dream—like I was the one he was pleading to.

"Harry, it's me. It's _Louis_." I said softly, gripping his arms lightly. He scrambled to sit up and looked at me. It was then that I had more than a few moments to look at a vulnerable Harry.

His eyes were watered down and his cheeks were flushed. His expression was…_broken_. That strong, cold, bold face that seemed to be made of bricks was now cracking. His lip quivered and he looked down, gripping his bed sheets. In a flash, though, his fingers moved from the sheets to my arms, and he held them for dear life. I was sure there would be bruises running across my arm from the force of his hold, but this time they wouldn't be there as a result of anger.

His whole body began to shake—out of nervousness or fear, I wasn't sure—but I'm not one to watch someone else emotionally break down, no matter how cruel they are. So I did the unthinkable: I pulled Harry closer to me, placed my hand on the back of his head, guided it to my shoulder and wrapped my arms around him.

He didn't fight me and he didn't protest, instead, he allowed me to hold him, and it was only a few moments later that he started crying again. He buried his face into the crook of my neck and the tears spilled onto my neck. I felt his fingers dig into my shoulder and grip my t-shirt, like it was the only thing he had to hold onto—like it was the only thing that was holding him in place. Surprisingly, the pain I was expecting to feel never came, as I was too preoccupied with Harry's fingers grazing my bare skin.

He was desperate for comfort, and his tears were almost like a plea; a plea for whatever he was dreaming about to never happen to him again…or a plea for him to just forget.

I didn't say anything to him yet—no words of encouragement, and I didn't dare ask him what his dream was about. Though I could take a wild guess…

I rubbed his back and let my head rest on his shoulder, hearing the vibrations of his sobs rumble in his chest as I held him. I inhaled his scent of aftershave and fabric softener, and my heart fluttered a bit as Harry's arms wound around my neck and pulled me closer to him. It seemed like a silent way of saying 'thank you', and I only gripped him harder,

"It'll be okay, Harry," I cooed, rubbing his back in circles.

That's when I felt his whole body stiffen, and that's when I knew I had made a big mistake. Harry realized the reality of what he was doing. I was _stupid_ enough to speak to him in his time of need and desperation.

He loosened his grip on me and pulled away, making sure to shove my sore shoulder as he did so. His face was stone cold again, his cheeks were tear-stained and his eyes were red and tired. He glared at me and pointed a shaky finger to the door,

"Get out."

I reached out to hold his arm, but he snapped it away from me, "_Just talk to me_." I said, trying to reach out to him. I wanted to know what was wrong. And I wanted to help him. I didn't care about the past. I…I wanted him to be okay.

He shook his head and pointed more firmly at it, "Get out. _Now_, Louis."

I stared blankly at him—that was the first time Harry ever let my name slip from his lips. I was interested at how easily it rolled off his tongue, but was a bit put off by how simply and quite sad he sounded.

I swallowed thickly as he broke eye contact with me, wiping his eyes with the back of his arm.

"Please, Harry—"

"Just _go_." He said softly, still not looking at me. I sighed deeply, finally admitting defeat. I got off of the bed and walked slowly to the door. Before I exited, I turned around,

"Listen, Harry—"

"No." He whispered, and the way his voice cracked, I could tell a sob was threatening to escape his throat, "Just leave." He said, a bit more sternly, as if he were trying to cover up that cry.

I nodded and closed the door behind me, trying not to let my own tears fall down my cheeks.

It was only after I walked away that I heard Harry's whimpering again, but I continued to my room and closed the door, his cries echoing in my ears as I drifted off again into my own slumber.


	4. Chapter Three

I poured myself a cup of coffee, not even bothering to be quiet as I knew Harry wasn't in the flat. Because, just as he always did, he refused to even glance my way.

I don't blame him—especially not after his night terror just two nights ago.

I had been replaying the night's events over and over in my head. The repetitive screams he made: "No!" "Take me!" "Please" "Leave him alone!" "Take me!"

I had been struggling the past few days, trying to figure out who he was talking to, and more importantly, who he was talking _about_.

My logical guess boiled down to Ami Shane—the one person Harry had refused to talk about since I had first moved into the flat. But my biggest question was why? Why was Harry dreaming of Ami Shane? What was happening in his dream that he was willing to take Ami's place? It seemed like it was something painful—and what surprised me was that Harry was willing to go through whatever it was _instead_ of Ami. It seemed like a sacrifice. I was always under the impression Harry didn't do things for others.

Then again, he did just have a night terror and cried in my arms two nights ago.

So really, I guess anything was possible when it came to Harry Styles.

I frowned and glanced at the newspaper that was lying on the counter. I'm not normally a newspaper type of person, but I picked it up anyway, glancing at the headlines.

**Government in trouble?**

Not much of a politics person, either.

I flipped to the entertainment page and smiled at some of the headlines I saw.

**X Factor ready for a new season! Simon Cowell heard to be returning back to the judges table!**

**Little Mix's new album due out next week!**

I smiled and turned the page, but frowned at the next headline I saw:

**Is Harry Styles in trouble? **

I frowned and lifted the newspaper more closely to my eyes, reading every word of the article.

_Harry Styles, probably the most memorable member of One Direction, seems to be heading in a downwards spiral of doom._

_Sources tell us that he has been showing up to the pub around the corner from the flat he shares with Louis Tomlinson every night for the past two weeks. Not getting along with your flatmate, eh Harry?_

I rolled my eyes at the comment, snorting at how comically true it was, and continued reading:

_It seems Harry stays at the local pub for hours, having drink after drink, until every night, without fail, the bartender cuts him off, and sends the teen boy home._

_But what could be the cause of this? Why would Harry feel the need to get drunk every night? He has an amazing job, he's working with the best musicians in the world, he's doing what he loves every day, and he has the money to prove it._

_The staff and I could only come up with one answer: Ami Shane._

_Ami, the best friend to Harry, who died that terrible, fateful night those nine months ago. He and Harry were partners in crime, and now Harry doesn't have him anymore._

_Well, here's to hoping Louis Tomlinson can sweep Harry off of his feet and bring him back to earth. We miss our cheeky Harry that we know and love! _

_-Anna Bailey, Journalist_

I shoved the newspaper away from me, taking a long sip of my coffee before peeling my eyes away from it.

What a stupid article. How could they be so insensitive to Harry, who did just lose a very close person in his life? I was fuming about it, but yet…I was intrigued.

The journalist seemed to be on the same page as I was—Ami Shane's name kept popping up—in newspaper articles and from Liam—what was going on here?

I knew I had to find out more. As much as Harry irritated me to know end, I still couldn't help but want to help him. He needed someone to, and it seemed that everyone in the band—even Simon—had given up on him. But I hadn't. I still had a feeling I could get Harry to change his ways.

Maybe _that_ was why Simon had me live with him…maybe he had known all along.

I stood up and began pacing, the thoughts racing through my head.

Ami had something to do with everything that was happening to Harry—maybe even the dream. And I knew that. But what could it be? What could have happened to Ami that would make Harry have _a night terror_?

I racked my brain for anything that people have mentioned about Ami. Anything at all that anyone has said about him, or inferred about him, or anything remotely close to that.

And all I got was that Harry refused to talk about him. Which was…odd to me.

Because he was one of the most famous singers on the planet—why didn't I know more about him?

And suddenly, like a wave crashing down on me, it hit me: I knew nothing about how Ami died.

In fact, I don't think anyone instead for those directly involved knew anything about it, either. Which was weird, because…he was fucking Ami Shane—his death was monumental, not only to the music industry but to his millions of fans around the world.

So…how did I not know? Granted, I was a casual fan of the band before I joined them, but his death made headlines, and yet no one spoke of the cause of his death?

I groaned and my laptop sitting at the end of the couch caught my eye. I dropped my coffee mug and stalked over to it, taking a seat on the couch and opening my laptop, moving my mouse and waiting for the screen to come to life.

I immediately opened my web browser and went to my favorite search engine, typing in three simple words:

_Ami Shane's death._

Immediately, over 500,000 results came up. I clicked the first one and read over quickly what it said:

_Ami Shane—dead by natural cause._

I shook my head. "Bullshit." I muttered to myself before clicking back and trying another link.

_Ami Shane—death by natural cause…or something else?_

The headline caught my attention, and even though the source was one of conspiracy theorists, I read it anyway, my hopes getting the better of me.

_Ami Shane was young, healthy and incredibly talented—how could he have possibly died of natural causes, if there never was one to begin with?_

"Good point." I said, crossing my arms and continuing:

_Harry Styles was with Ami the night he died…did anyone take a moment to think the curly headed perfect boy may not be so perfect after all?_

_No one blames Harry for Ami's death, and in no way are we here at Celebrity Conspiracy saying he had direct hand in Ami's death, but we have to ask…could Harry Styles know more than he is letting on?_

_Stay tuned to our site for more updates on this conspiracy._

I exhaled the breath I didn't even realize I was holding and closed the web browser, making sure I deleted all of its history before shutting down my laptop. My heart beat wildly in my chest as I thought of that last article.

Could it be true? Could Harry really know something we all don't about Ami's death? If so…_what_ is it?

My head snapped towards the front door as the knob jiggled, indicating Harry was about to walk in. I swallowed the deep lump in my throat as Harry finally entered the room, refusing to acknowledge my existence as he dropped his leather jacket on the banister and stormed up to his bedroom, making sure to close the door behind him.

If that were the case, I really wasn't sure if I wanted to know.

* * *

><p>The rehearsal studio so far hadn't been too bad—mainly us five boys were just singing together and working my voice in with their already established harmonies.<p>

But then Simon called and said he wanted more choreography.

…And that was stuff I knew I didn't sign up for. However, I knew that it was part of the job, so I stuck it out and by the end of each day; I was sweating bullets and cursing myself for not going to the gym as often as I should have.

On top of the extra dance rehearsals and voice lessons, the weight of finding out more about Ami and his death was a burden on my shoulders.

Let's just say…the week wasn't looking too good for me.

I had just gotten to the rehearsal studio, dreading what was to come. I walked through the door slowly, adjusting my bag on my shoulder when I heard laughter come from the studio. I stopped in my tracks and closed to door softly, making sure I still hadn't been heard. I looked through the door window and smiled at what I saw.

Niall was strumming his guitar lightly, and Zayn was singing something jokingly, causing Liam and even Harry to roll on the floor in laughter.

In all of the anger and terror and pain I had been experiencing the past few days, I had forgotten that in the midst of all of that, Harry and these boys had a strong bond already. Now, if that bond was stronger with or without Ami, I couldn't tell. But they were all still friends, nonetheless. I was ashamed at myself that I had forgotten that.

But it also gave me hope—Harry was capable of friendship, even with the terrible events that happened in his past, he was still able to maintain some sort of connection to these other guys.

So who was to say he couldn't do that with me?

I braced myself and walked into the room and noticed their laughter had died down, but they all still carried goofy grins on their faces. Even Harry did, though he turned away from me and started playing on his phone.

"Hey guys," I said, placing my bag on the floor.

"Hey, Lou!" Zayn said, standing up and wrapping an arm around my shoulders, guiding me to the group of boys huddled around Niall, "We were just playing around with some new chords. Did you want to sing your warm up song now?"

I shrugged and nodded, "Sure. Did you guys have anything in particular you wanted to hear?"

Zayn nodded, "Actually, yeah. You know It Will Rain, by Bruno Mars?"

"I love that song." I said, but I heard another voice collide with my own, saying the same words I was. I turned to Harry, who looked up from his cell phone. He stared at me with cold eyes, as if it were a bad thing we both happened to like the same song. However he rolled his eyes,

"What? Stop staring at me—all of you. It's a good song!" He exclaimed.

I gave him a weird look and Zayn eyed us both wearily, a small, knowing smile grazing his lips.

"Well," Zayn continued, "I think it would be the perfect song for you to do on tour. We are all allowed to do one cover on tour…what do you think?"

I shrugged, "I could give it a try." Zayn clapped his hands and Liam gripped my arm,

"I could do backup vocals for you, if you'd like."

"That'd be awesome!" I smiled. I turned to Niall and nodded to him, "You go this?" I asked, pointing to his guitar.

"No problem, mate." He said grinning from ear to ear.

I took a sip of a water bottle that was handed to me and glanced wearily at Harry again, who was now looking at me with a look of…surprise.

I swallowed nervously and heard Niall strum the chords to the first verse, and I began to sing:

_If you ever leave me, baby,__  
><em>_Leave some morphine at my door__  
><em>_'Cause it would take a whole lot of medication__  
><em>_To realize what we used to have,__  
><em>_We don't have it anymore._

I looked at Liam, and he nodded for me to continue. His genuine glance eased my nerves a bit and I saw Harry out of the corner of my eye, bobbing his head to the tune Niall was playing, and I continued:

_There's no religion that could save me__  
><em>_No matter how long my knees are on the floor__  
><em>_So keep in mind all the sacrifices I'm makin'__  
><em>_Will keep you by my side_  
><em>And keep you from walkin' out the door.<em>

_Cause there'll be no sunlight__  
><em>_If I lose you, baby__  
><em>_There'll be no clear skies__  
><em>_If I lose you, baby__  
><em>_Just like the clouds__  
><em>_My eyes will do the same if you walk away__  
><em>_Everyday, it'll rain, rain, rain_

I heard Liam's harmony in the background and I took the opportunity to glance at Zayn, who was smiling broadly. I was afraid to look in Harry's direction, but when I did, he was looking at me curiously, biting his lower lip. I swallowed thickly and finished the rest of the song without difficulty, earning a whoop and applause from the boys.

"Thanks, guys." I muttered to myself, though feeling quite proud of myself for nailing the song and getting the approval of the boys—even from Harry, who didn't shoot a dagger at me or curse under his breath as he prepared for his warm up song.

I sighed. It was better than nothing.

"What're you gunna sing, Harry?" Liam asked, taking a seat next to me.

The curly haired boy rolled his eyes and stood up, making sure to push past me as he walked over to Niall. He placed a hand on his shoulder and lifted his sunglasses off of his nose and onto the top of his head,

"The One That Got Away, by Katy Perry." I nodded in approval, but the other boys were incredibly silent at his statement. Liam was giving him a look of warning, but Zayn put a light hand on his arm, as if stopping him from saying something. Zayn spoke, an almost fake smile forming on his lips,

"Right. Alright Niall—you ready Harry?"

Harry shot Liam a look with narrowed eyes, but nodded at Zayn, "Yeah."

Niall began to strum the chords, and Harry started to sing.

_Summer after high school, when we first met__  
><em>_We make-out in your Mustang to Radiohead__  
><em>_And on my eighteenth birthday,__  
><em>_we got matching tattoos_

_Used to steal your parents liquor__  
><em>_and climb to the roof__  
><em>_Talk about our future like we had a clue__  
><em>_Never planned that one day__  
><em>_I'd be losing you_

_In another life, I you would be my girl__  
><em>_We'd keep all our promises,__  
><em>_be us against the world__  
><em>_In another life, I would make you stay__  
><em>_So I don't have to say you were__  
><em>_the one that got away__  
><em>_the one that got away_

I was unbelievably surprised by how…raw Harry's voice sounded. Not only that, but I was incredibly moved by how different he seemed to be when he sang. He almost sounded like a different person. No, he _was_ a different person when he sang. All of the coldness and hardness he held when he wasn't singing…it was like it never existed when he sang. Everything came through when he sang—every emotion, every feeling. It was like his soul took over for him when he sang.

And it was a beautiful thing to see.

His singing was affecting me in ways I didn't even realize. It was like he was speaking to me—even though I knew that was the last thing he was trying to convey. To him, he was just singing. But to me, he was opening up a different side to him that I never expected to see.

And it was then that I knew—I knew what kind of a person Harry really was, or what kind of a person he could become again. I wanted to know this person; I wanted to see this person come back to life. I knew it could happen.

And then all of the sudden, I knew just the way to do it. It would be hard and totally out of my element—but it was worth it.

I had to act like Harry Styles.

* * *

><p>"H—hey Harry." I greeted, walking up to him as everyone was leaving the studio to go home after the long day.<p>

He ignored me and continued to stuff his bag with his belongings, but I continued talking anyway,

"You sounded really great in there. I was…really impressed." He was still choosing to ignore me, and I looked down at my feet, in my head knowing what I had to say, but feeling afraid to.

My plan was either going to go one of two ways—either horribly wrong, making me look like an asshole, or so perfectly well that it would shock the planet.

I was hoping for the latter. With that in mind, and my hopes being way too high for my own good, I did what I had to,

"You uh…wanna grab a drink later, or something?"

At this, finally, I earned some recognition from the bad boy. He laughed out loud and turned to me, a skeptical look on his face,

"_You _want to go for a drink?" He asked, lifting an eyebrow in humor.

"Yes?" I said, following him as he began to leave the studio. It was only us two left, so he shut the light off as we left.

"At a _pub_?" He laughed again.

I rolled my eyes, "Yes. Generally, that's where most people get drinks, don't they?"

He gave me wary eye, "You don't seem like the drinking type, preppy." We had reached outside of the studio, and were now waiting outside for our car to bring us back to our flat. The other three boys had gotten their own cars back to their places.

"Yeah, well, maybe I'd like to start."

He nodded as he took out a cigarette and gave me a look of approval, which I took as a very good sign.

"You buying?" He asked, clearly trying to take advantage—if it were a free drink, of course he would go, but I wasn't going to let my pride get in the way of my plan.

"I will if you decide to go."

He cocked his head amusingly and lit his cigarette, puffing out smoke in the opposite direction of me and then suddenly gave me a humorous look,

"Are you…are you _hitting_ on me, preppy?"

It took me a moment to process his question. Was I hitting on him? What a stupid thing to ask, especially after him telling me I can't fall in love with him. If that were the case, why would I hit on him?

I shook my head, "No, I'm not."

He hummed and took another drag of his cigarette, a teasing smile still playing at his lips, "'Cause it's fine if you are, you know. I know I'm quite the attractive son of a bitch, I won't be offended—"

"Trust me, I'm not hitting on you." I said sternly, in my most convincing voice.

He laughed, "Touchy, aren't we?"

I shrugged and he nodded, dropping his cigarette to the floor and putting it out, "You said you're buying drinks?"

I nodded and stuffed my hands in my pockets as our car arrived,

"Alright, then I'm in." The car stopped in front of us and he jumped into it. I smiled softly to myself after him.

My plan was in full swing, and so far, it seemed to be working _perfectly_.


	5. Chapter Four

The pub was not very crowded, to my surprise. And also, apparently, to Harry's.

"Where _is_ everyone tonight?" He shot me a look and nudged me softly on my side, "They _must_ have known you were coming."

It took me a second to realize Harry had made a joke. A joke. Towards me. I laughed along with him and followed his suit by taking a seat at the bar.

The bartender, a muscular and brawly man, smiled lazily at Harry and turned to the alcohol dispenser,

"The usual, Curls?"

Harry nodded, "Yeah, make it two." He directed his pointing finger to me, and the bartender gave me a surprised look,

"Never seen you around these parts, kid."

My stomach dropped and I struggled to find my words, "Y—yeah, yeah, well, I'm…busy."

The bartender smirked, "Seems like you've never been to a bar before," He commented before turning to the liquor dispensers and pouring us our drinks. When he handed them to us Harry shooed him away,

"Yeah, yeah, alright Big. Lay off now. Go flirt with under ages and make yourself look like a predator."

"Fuck you." The bartender named Big sneered before walking to a group of pretty girls who had just gotten to the bar.

"Just tell me when and where, baby!" Harry teased and snickered before turning to me and sliding my drink down the bar until it reached my fingertips.

"Bottoms up." He said dryly before knocking back his drink.

I looked at the glass nervously. I had no idea what was in it, and the thought of alcohol in my system made me want to vomit, but I had to keep up this act. I had to get closer to Harry. And_ this_ was the only way how. I gripped the glass in my hand and mimicked Harry, swallowing the liquid so fast I felt it burn in my throat. I slammed the glass back on the table and Harry shot me an approving look. He almost smiled…_almost_,

"I didn't know you could drink." He commented a nonchalant smile forming slowly on his lips.

I nodded curtly, "Neither did I."

Harry hummed and raised his hand, getting Big's attention, "Big! Another round," He twirled his finger in a circular motion and before I could blink Harry was handing me another drink. We both took it at the same time, and I dropped my glass before him, already feeling the effects the alcohol was having on me.

"Another!" Harry shouted, and Big frowned,

"Don't make me cut you off before I make last call, Curls."

Harry waved a disregarding hand, "Stop talking and make us a drink. I'm the one paying you, you should be thanking me!" He cried, waving his money in the air.

"I don't thank people who bring those bloody news anchors into my place! This is a pub, Curls, not one of your red carpet events!"

Harry frowned and I patted his shoulder. I felt a bit dizzy but still managed to lean my head towards him, "If you don't act like a stupid drunk, he'll let you stay longer."

Harry smiled at me, a real smile, for the first time ever and whispered, "You know what? You're not all too bad."

I grinned at this. My plan was working, and it was working much faster than I expected. I nodded and wrapped my arm around his shoulders too, bringing him a bit closer to me. I could smell his cologne and after shave, which gave me a tingling feeling in my stomach.

But maybe that was the alcohol.

"You're not so bad yourself, Harry."

* * *

><p>It was many hours later when the two of us stumbled into the apartment, giggling and trying to find our way through the flat. I waved my hand until it found the wall, half leaning on it for support, as I flicked on the light. Harry was walking blindly towards the kitchen counter,<p>

"Harry, watch out for the-!"

Harry walked right into the stools, toppling over as a stool fell over with him. He landed on the ground with a loud crash, and there was a moment of silence before I doubled over in laughter.

Harry rolled his eyes and threw his leather jacket straight into my chest,

"Shut up!"

I grunted but still chuckled, and he followed suit, holding his head and struggling to get up. I noticed this and walked over to him, holding my hand out,

"Here." I said, moving my hand closer to him. He studied it carefully, as if he were contemplating what exactly he was going to do. His hand rose and hovered over mine, as if touching it would make or break him. He finally placed his cool hand in mine, and I lifted him up off of the floor.

He was lighter than I anticipated, and as I pulled him up, the force of my pull brought him very close to me. So close in fact, our chests were almost touching. The alcohol was slowly leaving my system, so I knew what was happening. And I was aware of what I was feeling…

My heart beating wildly in my chest, my palms feeling moist, and the urge to want him even closer to me than he was.

I shook my head and I gripped his hand harder, not realizing what I was doing. . No. This was the alcohol talking. No matter how much was in my system, and regardless of the fact that he knew the alcohol was leaving him—it didn't matter.

I wasn't supposed to be feeling this. I shouldn't be feeling this. This was Harry Styles, and I was the farthest thing from becoming his friend. I needed to stop. This needed to stop.

I let go of his hand, feeling my fingers graze his palm as they exited his hand. When they were separated, we stepped back from each other, and I picked up the stool that had fallen, sitting on it after I situated it. Harry walked to the refrigerator,

"Do you want another drink?"

I shook my head and rested my forehead on the counter, "No, I'm alright. Thanks."

I heard Harry laugh as he took a seat next to me. He patted my shoulder drunkenly and placed his glass on the counter, "Too much for one night?"

I sat up and shrugged, rubbing my eyes, "I'm going to have the worst hangover in the morning." I muttered.

His laugh was genuine and melodic, "I'm past getting hangovers. Now I just don't feel anything. Don't worry, you'll get used to it."

It was my turn to express amusement, "I sure hope not."

Harry scoffed and downed his drink, swallowing hard. He looked at me again, "You've surprised me, Tommo."

"How so?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck—it seemed to be out of nerves, "I don't know. I never expected you to do _this_." He said, gesturing to me.

I could tell his walls were coming down again, only this time it was willingly. I wasn't catching him having a nightmare; I wasn't catching him off guard at an interview where he wasn't prepared. No. This was real. This was because he was letting it happen on purpose.

"Expected me to do what?"

He shuffled his glass in his hands on the counter, staring forward before looking at me, "Be cool."

I couldn't hide my smile at the bluntness of his statement, "Well, thanks."

"Anytime."

There was a brief moment of silence before we both laughed again, and this time I spoke, "So does this mean you don't hate me anymore?"

His face grew solemn quickly, and his voice was sincere, "I never hated you."

I scoffed, "Could have fooled me."

He was silent again, and I knew my words must have gotten through to him—or at least stung. I felt bad, but before I could apologize his voice rang in the empty flat,

"I know. You're just…it's just…" He sighed and dragged a hand down his face.

My voice softened, "I'm just what, Harry?"

He swallowed thickly and refused to meet my graze. If it weren't for the complete silence of our flat, I wouldn't have heard what he muttered under his breath,

"You're so much like _him_."

My breath caught in my throat, knowing he was talking about Ami. He was still refusing to speak his name, but he was talking about him openly.

And I was so afraid of what Harry would say.

"I'm—I'm sorry. I…I didn't know." I really didn't know. I didn't know Harry had such an attachment to Ami, whether it was just friendship, or love, or whatever. And as much as I would hate to admit it, I was _hoping_ Harry's connection to Ami was the former.

Harry shook his head and held up his hand, "No. You shouldn't have to say that. I'm just…still trying to figure it out." He swallowed the lump in his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing with the intake. I looked to him and frowned when I saw moisture in his eyes.

"Harry…"

"No, listen Tommo." I silenced at his tone; demanding, but inviting at the same time. "_This_ isn't going to go away. I can't promise you I'm going to not get pissed off at you for something you say, or for something I think. I'm _going_ to yell at you, I'll probably throw things, and my smoking and alcohol addiction won't stop. I hope you don't think anything will change overnight because we're being civil."

I shook my head, "No, I don't. But, I want you to know, that nothing you can do will make me want to move out of this flat, or quit the band. I'll still be here for you when you need me—or if you ever do."

The words came out like vomit—there was nothing I could do to stop it. But I meant all of it. It only took ten shots of alcohol and a few hours of being drunk with Harry to realize that he was in severe pain from Ami's death. And he would be for a while. It made sense that his feelings for Ami, however strong they were, were affecting him emotionally, now that he was gone.

And since I reminded Harry so much of Ami (apparently) it was obvious that his attitude towards me was only because I was reminding him of someone who would never return.

Harry's gaze was glued to me, and it was a look I couldn't identify. Was he scared? Nervous? Concerned? Happy? It seemed as though all of those emotions were swimming in his eyes. But which emotion was dominant…I wasn't sure.

It seemed like a few minutes had gone by and a very small, very quaint smile appeared on his features. It didn't feel as though he was looking at me though—it seemed as though he was imagining I was someone else. His eyes seemed unfocused now, and I concluded that maybe he was thinking about something—a past memory, perhaps. I sighed and I could tell he had regained his focused, and I took the opportunity to break the silence.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I whispered, the nerves I didn't know I had becoming known through my voice.

He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He closed it and looked down at the table and smiling to himself. He glanced back up at me,

"I want to try something."

I looked down quickly, now really sure what Harry was going to do. But it made me nervous. What would he want to try? Was he going to hurt me? Why would he want to try anything on me?

What in the world was he going to do?

My breath caught in my throat as my peripherals caught him standing up from the stool. And I don't know if it was the alcohol in my system or what, but it seemed like milliseconds before he was behind me. He placed both of his hands on my shoulders, and I hissed in pain, my one shoulder still sore from the first week I had moved in. Harry noticed my pain and moved his hand away, before placing it back a bit more gently.

"What is it?" He whispered. I shivered as his breath tickled my neck.

"It's nothing."

"D_on'_t lie to me." His fingers traced my arm until they reached the sleeve of my t-shirt. He gently pulled it until my bruised shoulder was revealed. It was still purple, but also had a green color surrounding the main bruise.

Harry took a deep breath and his thumb rubbed over it gently, causing me to flinch.

"Can I?" He asked, his thumb now hovering over my shoulder. I nodded immediately and he continued the menstruations until I had stopped wincing. It took a few moments before he whispered,

"Did _I _do this to you?"

So he had remembered. He remembered that first confrontation he had. But I wasn't sure if I wanted him to know the truth, or if he even should. But again, the inebriation took over and I nodded my head slowly, confirming his theory.

We were both silent for a while after that. Why though, I wasn't sure. I was very confused for a few reasons. Why was Harry touching me? Did he feel sorry for me? Did he feel anything at all? But more importantly, what was I feeling? Certainly, I didn't dislike him anymore. In fact, I knew that wasn't the case.

He stopped moving his thumb and I froze, my ears barely catching what he whispered,

"I'm sorry."

I let out a shaky breath and nodded, shrugging a bit, "Its okay, Harry."

"No, it's not."

And then, something unexpected happened. Something I never thought Harry Styles would ever do—he kissed my shoulder.

The pair of warm, soft lips connecting with my skin set me on fire. I don't know why, but I felt my entire body tingle; from the toes on my feet to the hairs on my head. My brain was turning to mush and I knew I was melting. I had conformed to him right as his touch, and that was apparent now. My mind was telling me this was wrong, that I should stop him from touching me. That he didn't want me.

Yet my heart told a completely different story.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, I felt Harry's arm wrap around my chest and his hand cupped my cheek, tilting my chin towards him.

And that's when his lips moved from my shoulder and up to my neck.

They were soft kisses, and the light sucking on my pulse made me grip the stool seat in surprise. I tilted my head to the side subconsciously to give Harry more access to my neck and my eyes closed. I was allowing myself to enjoy what he was giving to me.

Harry's fingers grazed over my cheek, and the contact made me swallow thickly and my mouth opened again, letting out an audible moan.

The sound I made broke the silence barrier. It was as if any type of sound broke us out of the dream like sequence we seemed to be living in. It made everything completely real.

And I knew by the look in Harry's eyes that he was completely terrified. And yet, I wasn't.

Harry's fingers were now at my chin, and he moved my head so I was looking at him.

His green eyes were filled with lust. Like he was hungry and on a hunt. Yet at the same time, they were warm, and welcoming, and soft. I could almost see the alcohol swimming in his eyes. This should have discouraged me, but it only made me draw closer to him.

He wanted me; I knew that at first glance. But not because of any type of feelings he had—it was because he was lonely, and drunk, and vulnerable. But he was contemplating it. He wasn't sure if he should touch me anymore. I could tell he was treating me as if I were fragile and made of glass. He was afraid of hurting me again.

So that's why it took me by great surprise when he leaned, his eyes closing as he closed the space between us. I could smell the alcohol on his breath as he inched closer.

Knowing all of this—knowing he was using me, knowing how he was treating me now, and how he had treated me in the past weeks, and knowing my heart was racing and I could hear it pounding through my ears—I did the next closest thing to actually breaking '_the rule_'.

I let him kiss me.


	6. Chapter Five

"Urgh."

I rolled over to my side, and shut my eyes tighter as the rising sun shined bright beams into the room.

But wait…the sun?

The sun should never be peaking through my windows—not if my black curtains can help it.

I peeked an eye open, my green orb stuck on the bare white walls and open suitcases lying on the floor. The scraps of paper on the floor and the lack of a smoky scent made my heart drop into the pit of my stomach. After a moment of screaming, 'oh _fuck_' in my head, I realized…This was _not_ my room.

I moved my arm above my head and jumped slightly when I felt my hand brush up against someone else's soft skin. I snapped my head quickly to find the person sleeping peacefully beside me.

_Preppy_. I shook my head. No. Louis. His name is _Louis_.

Right. Louis was in the bed. I was in the bed. We were in the bed. Together. At the same time.

"What the _fucking_ hell?" I whispered. I sat up in his bed a little too quickly, for as soon as I sat up, I felt my head pound heavily.

"Shit." I muttered, rubbing my temples. I looked around in disbelief again. _What was going on? Why wasn't I in my own bed, still sleeping? How did I get up here into Louis' bed? Why would I—how did I—What am I doing in Louis' bed?_

I rubbed my temples again as a shot of pain seared through my forehead. I groaned lightly, but quickly shut up when Louis shifted in his sleep. I felt his leg press against my own, and I shuddered at the contact.

"Shit." I muttered again under my breath.

I shook my head and continued to rub my temples, taking a deep sigh and closing my eyes. "_Think_ Harry, what happened last night?" I whispered to myself.

I looked around the room again. Judging by the half full glass of whiskey sitting on the bureau, I must have been completely hammered.

But that was no surprise: 90% of my actions were due to being drunk.

I forced myself to focus on the night's events: Louis and I went to get drinks. He paid. Damn right he did, too.

We went back to the flat. I poured another drink. Then something happened.

I felt something…weird in the pit of my stomach. It was as if something were…fucking _floating_ in there. It was almost…whimsical.

I knew what this was. It had happened to me before. A long time ago. And I wasn't about to let it happen again. And especially not when it pertained to Louis. Too many bad things happened when I let other things get in my line of vision. No. This wasn't happening.

"Get your head out of your arse, prick. _Think_!" I muttered again, leaning forward and shoving my face in my hands.

I felt Louis move again, and this time, he was facing me. I let my eyes trace his features: The eyelashes that looked like a mascara pen had been run through them, his shallow cheekbones that accentuated his bony features, and his light hair that seemed to stick out to me, for some odd reason I subconsciously knew but refused to explain. I could see his shoulder and neck were more exposed in the light as the comforter covering him dipped down.

I let my eyes rest on his neck, and I spotted a very dark, very large mark on it. My brow furrowed, wondering what the hell it was. I took a closer look and noticed it was a bruise.

With _bite marks_ surrounding the purple and blue blemish.

That's when I _really_ felt my heart blow up into smithereens.

No.

No.

_No._

"Oh my god. Fucking—shit."

I hooked up with Louis.

Everything was coming back to me now: the way he looked at me last night when we were in the kitchen, and the way I was _probably_ looking at him. My stupid ass kissing his shoulder and then…and then…

I kissed him. I kissed him and he let me kiss him and if I remember correctly, he had no problem kissing me back.

We were glued to each other as we stumbled up the stairs and into his room. I pushed him onto the bed—I got _on top_ of him. Oh my god…I _seduced_ him.

"Shit."

I needed a fucking cigarette.

I stood up from the bed and starting pacing, pulling at the ends of my hair and dragging my hands down my face.

"What the _fuck_!" I cried to myself.

I felt a sudden draft in my lower region and looked down, another realization of horror coming to me.

I was fucking naked.

Holy shit.

Tits. Fuck. Ass. Dick. Twat.

I was naked.

Did, did we…?

"No." I said to myself, "Of course not. I _always_ sleep naked. This is nothing new." It was true—regardless of if I was sleeping by myself or with any of the boys: clothes were never an option when it came to sleep wear.

Right on cue, Louis turned over in his sleep, exposing his back, where more, smaller bruises were formed.

I groaned at the sight and walked over to the bed, sitting down and getting underneath the covers. I closed my eyes, preparing for the worst, as I lifted the covers and peeked underneath them, to get a glance at Louis' undergarments.

He was wearing the same pants he had worn last night.

I sighed in relief and let my head rest on the headboard. But then I suddenly frowned, feeling a sense of regret.

Because shit, why_ didn't _we sleep together? I'm a great looking guy, and Louis isn't too bad. What was the problem? Was it me? Or was it him?

I looked at Louis sleeping again and rolled my eyes, thinking about Louis' personality.

No, of _course_ it wasn't me. I would never pass up a good lay. Regardless of who it was, and especially when I was drunk off my ass.

It had to be him. The good boy—the great fucking Samaritan. The buzz kill. He probably stopped me, or stopped himself, long before any clothes were off.

Yes, that had to have been what happened.

A loud, ringing sound coming from my open bedroom shook me out of my thoughts. I glanced quickly at Louis to make sure he was still sleeping before I dashed to my room. I picked up my clothes that were strewn on the floor and threw them on before answering the phone to stop the obnoxious ringing, without looking at the caller ID first.

"_What?"_ I hushed automatically into the phone, trying to keep my voice down even though my room was quite a few feet away from Louis'.

"Has the apocalypse arrived? Harry Styles answers his mobile? The world must _really_ be coming to an end."

I rolled my eyes at the familiar voice that drawled on the other end, "To what do I owe the pleasure_, Uncle_ Simon?"

I heard Simon sigh on the other end and the normal flash of guilt washed through me. It was quick though—for I knew my relationship with Simon had changed drastically over the past nine months and I knew I had changed too. With that change came the ability to bury my deep, emotional feelings and replace them with a cold hard face and the emotional range of a teaspoon.

It was easier to do, and it prevented the pain I was not willing to deal with.

Simon cleared his throat and continued, "The song."

My mind went blank, "What song?"

"The song you and Louis have to write." Simon said, a sense of urgency heightening his deep voice.

Suddenly it clicked in my head, "Oh, right. _That_." The thought of writing a song hadn't been on my mind since it was first assigned to us. Partly because it was an easy task to manage, and really didn't need much thought. Writing songs was like breathing for me.

The other part of me hadn't thought about writing the song because I didn't _want_ to write the song. Writing songsis like breathing for me—but I always had a partner to write them with.

So if writing is like breathing, but I need a partner—something I am without—how am I supposed to write if it takes the breath out of my lungs?

The answer? I _can't._

Ergo, why the topic of the song hadn't breached my mind.

"Yes. How's it going?" Simon asked, a hint of hope seeping out. I could tell Simon was talking in a broader sense—he was asking about living with Louis.

I rubbed the back of my neck and glanced at Louis' open bedroom door, a thumping in my chest occurring for a slight moment as I caught a glimpse of his sleeping form on the bed.

I frowned however, forcing myself to bury the whimsical sensation fluttering in my stomach and replaced it with something else. Something I could easily direct to Simon.

Annoyance.

With myself? Hardly. With Simon? Always.

"It's fine. It's _just_ a song. It's something I could do in my sleep! No need to get anal over it." I said persuasively.

"Then why haven't you gotten the first draft to me yet? And you're supposed to be doing it with Louis, too." He reminded me.

I rolled my eyes, my ego getting the better of me. Sure, Louis was known to be a good song writer, but I hadn't seen any proof of this. And Simon seemed to have a knack for picking the underdog, nurturing them and transforming them into successful, huge ass pop star hits.

I mean, look at what he did with One Direction.

"I have better and more interesting things to do than write a song with Louis, whose writing experience probably has a range from tea cups to purple flowers." The guilty feeling flushed through me again at my comment, and this time it was harder to ignore. Was it because I was talking shit about Louis? Was it because of what happened, or didn't happen, last night with him?

I shook my head. Regardless of what it was from, I had to bury it. I had to get it so deep into my system it became nonexistent. I looked around hurriedly and my eyes locked on the cigarette pack and lighter I had been craving.

I dived for the items and raced down the stairs and went outside as Simon spoke, "I'll have you know that Louis has won several contests for his song writing—his audition was a song he wrote!

I pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it easily, the stick feeling comfortable in my fingers as I sucked and inhaled, letting out a long, dark puff of smoke. I smiled to myself, letting the burn of the smoke in my lungs push any emotion I had out of my filter.

What was guilt again?

"I don't care what he's done," I snapped, "He hasn't proven anything to me, therefore he's still considered an amateur in my eyes."

Simon groaned, "You are so hard to please."

"Why is that a bad thing?"

Simon paused, "It makes you irritating."

I scoffed , "Haven't I always been that way?"

Simon's answer came faster than expected, without any hesitation, "No, you haven't."

I knew I walked right into that one. My sarcasm normally stumped my fellow band mates, but I still hadn't been able to top Simon. He knew me too well; that's not to say the other boys didn't know me that well. But Simon watched me grow into what I've become. The other boys looked after themselves—Simon saw everything and everyone.

I took a deep breath and tapped my cigarette, "Well, things change."

"Like people?" Simon finished, a frustrated tone ringing out.

"Exactly." I said, smirking as I thought of Zayn and his way with words.

"Well look, whether you've changed or not, that song has to get done. And I know one thing is for sure—you haven't stopped loving writing songs."

My heart dropped—it was true, I really hadn't. It was a part of me—it was one of the reasons why being in One Direction was one of the only things that made me slightly happy anymore.

"Your point?" I asked annoyingly.

"The song needs to be done by the end of the month. Today is the 14th—so it needs to be finished in two weeks."

I blew out another puff of smoke, "What's the occasion?" I asked.

"It's for your first performance as a group with Louis. You write a song with him, he performs it—it's a great introduction for him."

"Then why don't you have him write it, then? If he's so great, let him do it! It's his song, why do I have to help out?"

"Because, Harry, you are the leader of this group, whether you want to believe it or not. The fans respect you, and they know you co wrote a lot of the songs on the last album. It will be expected. You also have a great talent, Harry. A great song will come of the two of you working together."

I groaned and rubbed my temples. I really wasn't in the mood to argue with Simon right now—my cigarette was burning away, and I had a half naked guy in my flat probably half awake wondering where the fuck I was. Realizing I did not want to go back into my flat, I knew it was better to face Louis than to continue arguing with Simon over the phone.

"Fine. Whatever. I'll write it with him by the end of the week. But this is the only time, is that clear?"

Simon was hesitant on the other end, and it felt like he didn't want to agree to my demand. However, I heard him breathe on the other end and I knew he didn't want to talk on the phone any more than I did,

"Great. Fax it over when it's finished."

"Fine."

I heard the other end click and I hung up my mobile as well.

I pocketed my phone and sucked the last drag of my cigarette before I dropped it to the ground to put it out. I turned on my heel and walked towards the door to my flat in a huff.

I didn't want to think about writing a damn song, especially with Louis, who was still sleeping half naked with hickey's all over his god damn body…no thanks to me.

I opened the door as quietly as I could and closed it the same way, trying to keep from waking Louis. I knew running into him was inevitable, seeing as we lived in the same flat, but I wanted to prolong it for as long as I could.

"Uh, hi."

At the sound of his voice my head snapped up and my eyes met Louis'. He probably thought I was glaring at him; and to be honest that wasn't my intention…I just couldn't help but stare at him.

Being intoxicated to the point of blackout tends to mess with your memory a little bit, and seeing Louis sleeping in bed didn't compare to what I saw before me.

Louis was quite attractive. And that's me being reserved.

He was a bit shorter than me, but his torso was still refined, as I could see because he was still not wearing a shirt. His upper arm muscles suited him, as well as his forearms. His lips were holding a hesitant frown, but that didn't defer from his natural features. His strong jaw line was tempting to me to grab, and his tousled hair from just waking up didn't help that temptation, either.

I stood up straight and cleared my throat, "Hey."

He was silent as he looked at me with an emotionless expression. Which was exceptionally odd for him. I decided to break the silence, as it was eating at me.

"How'd you sleep?" I asked stupidly, and completely out of character. Then again, hooking up with him of all people isn't necessarily in my character, either.

He smiled lazily at me and headed to the kitchen, searching the cabinets for something to eat, "Fine. And you?"

I nodded, "I've slept better."

Louis smirked, "I'm sure."

I hummed and went to sit at the counter, watching Louis' every move. I could still see the bruises on his neck, and took a deep breath.

Well, might as well get this over with.

"So, erm, I'm sorry about, uh…"

"About what?" Louis asked, looking a bit offended, "If you're talking about last night, well," He paused, "I don't regret it."

My eyes widened in shocked, "You don't." I said, as a statement, but with a questioning tone.

"No. I don't."

"Why?" I demanded taking in a shuddering breath I was not expecting. Was I…nervous for him answer?

My god.

"Because," He began, nonchalantly, pouring himself a cup water, "I…I just don't, I don't know. I don't feel regret."

"Humph." I said dumbly.

"Do you?" Louis asked expectantly.

"What?"

"Regret it?"

"I…" I really didn't know. Did I regret having a person there when I was alone? No. Do I regret making Louis that person for me—using him to give into my needs and insecurities?

My heart sped faster and the guilt seeped into me. Yes, I do regret that.

There was also the fact that it was _Louis_. As much as I cursed him out, probably scare him, and want to rip his perfectly placed fucking hair out—that didn't mean he deserved what I was giving him. I knew I was in the wrong for giving him hell when he first arrived. I knew that. I couldn't help what I was doing. I knew I was hurting him. I didn't like hurting anyone. And knowing I hurt him was something terrible I had to carry.

People have this perception of me—that I'm a bad ass, or a "bad boy", or whatever the fuck. The tabloids have made me into this horrible, horrible person who drinks and cusses and makes people feel like shit.

And it's true, I have. I've turned into a monster. And despite the fact that I act like I _don't _have a heart, I know I do. It's always been there. The beating in my chest that I hear when I sit in the darkness of my room is the constant fucking reminder that I have a damn heart. I actually hate that it's there.

Because for the past nine months it's been terribly broken.

I'd rather it be disposed of than sitting in my chest utterly shattered with no one there to pick up the pieces.

Louis was staring at me with intense eyes. How easy it would be to tell him all of this. To be honest with him. But that's the thing, isn't it? It's too easy. It's easy. But at the same time, it's so hard to be honest with him about my past when I hardly trust myself to tell it to him.

So I had to tell Louis the truth, and somehow I knew I'd be hurting him.

"Yes."

Like I had predicted, his face fell and his chest lowered, like someone had punched him.

"Oh." He finally breathed.

"Yeah." I said definitively.

He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it. I could see he was trying to figure out what to say. His face was like a movie screen—the emotions he was feeling crossing his face in swift movements.

He closed his mouth and then opened it again, finally finding the words,

"I just thought…"

He drifted off with his words, and this frustrated me. If he had something to say, Jesus Christ, say it! What did he expect out of me? What did he want from me? I raised my voice, not really meaning it but at the same time I couldn't find any other way to express myself.

"Thought what?" I asked tiredly, "Nothing changes. We fooled around, yeah, but that doesn't mean I'm going to become your plaything…or whatever." I finished quickly.

I saw Louis' eyes flash a hint of hurt and I felt a pain in my chest. My fingers gripped my pocket and I could feel the outline of the cigarette pack. Louis sighed deeply and looked down, defeated.

Yeah, I'd really need that cigarette. I _needed_ to bury this.

Bury the feelings. Bury the guilt…or whatever this _new_ feeling was that I refused to identify.

"Nothing," Louis finally said, lifting his head up and giving me a straight lipped smile. "I'm, uh, going to go shower and then head out for a bit—"

I groaned in frustration, "Ugh, wait." Because in truth, I really didn't want him to leave. No matter how much I didn't want to talk about what happened between us, I just didn't want him to go.

"Yeah?" Louis asked.

Shit. My mind went blank on ideas. What the hell was I supposed to say now? _Oh Louis, please don't leave, I just selfishly want to be in your presence so I don't have to feel alone anymore. I just want to be near someone again. I miss not having someone there._

Yeah, fuck that.

"Simon called." I said, "Yeah, he called. He said we needed to work on the song. When are you free?" I asked hastily.

Louis raised an amused eyebrow, "We have the same schedule, Harry. We do everything with the boys, remember?"

_Christ_.

"Ha. Right. So, later tonight, then?"

He cleared his throat and nodded, sending me another straight smile, "Sure."

My eyes followed him as he continued to walk up the stairs, and when he was out of view, I dragged a hand down my face.

What the _fuck_ am I doing?


	7. Chapter Six

Cold hands were cradling my neck as I looked into his dark brown eyes. Emotions were running high, for both of us. I could feel his hands on my neck as the cool evening breeze passed through us. Shuddering, I spoke his name,

"_Ami_."

He grinned but didn't say anything, his teeth glistening in the moonlight and his eyes shining right along with them. I looked down and continued.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, his hands on my neck moving so I was forced to look up at him again.

Ami swallowed thickly, his Adam's Apple bobbing in time. His eyes searched me before they met my own,

"Harry, there's something I've been meaning to tell you…" His words trailed off and he looked nervously around the small, narrow arrow he dragged me into. Now I was getting nervous. Ami always had everything under control; I always felt utterly safe whenever we were together—which was all of the time. He was my best friend after all…

I nodded and raised my eyebrows in anticipation, "Go on then."

He looked down and huffed, "I'm trying to find the words." He muttered.

I chuckled, "That's never a problem for you, Ami."

He let out a shaky breath and his eyes bore into me with a look I had never seen on him before, "It is when I'm with you."

I felt my heart drop into the pit of my stomach, and I was certain my eyes were bulging out of their sockets in shock. The words could be of any merit—but my reaction told me my instincts were right. My fingers were becoming sweaty, even with the cool breeze dancing along them. But why?

Was it because I always knew? Was it because Ami was my best friend and I was afraid? Was it because I still didn't know what _I_ was going to do?

My eyes scanned his face, trying to see if a smile would crack and he would tell me he was joking and force me back into the pub we were standing outside of. But I saw none—all I saw was sincerity, which was a rarity.

"What do you—?"

That's when I felt it. That's when my world tipped over and went upside down. Ami's hands were gripping the back of my neck as his lips were pressed firmly against my own. My hands were on my sides. I was paralyzed. This was Ami Shane. My writing partner, band mate, best friend…

Of course, he was attractive—beautiful even. His features fit well with him and his personality, which I also adored. And yes, I was always attracted to him, anyone with any type of genitalia should be or they were crazy.

But this? I wasn't expecting this. Everyone in the band and management knew which team I played for, but Ami? Ami always had a lovely lady on his arm; he always had a girl sneaking up the drainpipe into his room in the wee hours of the morning…which he still didn't think I knew about.

And now he was kissing me. And…and I really didn't mind.

And I had this striking urge to kiss him back. Because that's what you do, right? That's what you do what someone kisses you, you kiss back—even if you don't want to…you still do it. It's instinct.

So, I did what my instincts told me to.

I could feel his tongue pressing against my lips, and I parted them, allowing him access. He then pushed me up against the wall behind me and held me there. It was weird at first—kissing Ami—because it was him. It was my best friend.

Yet I couldn't stop. I didn't _want_ to. I was pulling him closer to me as my arms wound around his neck. I never wanted this to end. I felt like a big part of me was being filled—a part of me I didn't even know needed filling.

Of course, the intimate touches and hand holding and things of the like were always there, but isn't that what best friends did? I was almost sure Ami did those things with the other boys. So why me? Why was he kissing me?

But then again, shouldn't I ask the same question? Why Ami?

The answer was clear to me, though: It was Ami, it had _always_ been Ami.

In an instant, I felt his lips being drawn back harshly away from me, and suddenly the warmth I felt with his body surrounding me was gone. I opened my eyes and a large man was standing in front of me, his jean pocket holding a gun and his hand strangling Ami's neck and pinning him against the wall next to me,

"Ami—" I choked.

"Don't speak." Demanded the intruder, who was extremely tall and beef, with dark eyes and a black beanie covering his head. He nodded to me and then to Ami, and two other men appeared, grabbing Ami by the hands and pulling him down the alley a bit and against the opposite wall.

"What are you doing with him? Let him _go_!" I said fearfully. These men looked dangerous and ready to kill. The man in front of me snickered and stepped closer to me,

"Don't you worry about him—he's getting _exactly_ what he deserves." He said darkly, inching closer to me with every word.

"He doesn't _deserve_ what you're giving him." I sneered back. I may be the youngest in the band but I knew how to defend myself from an attacker, "And you deserve to go to _hell_."

That's when his fist connected with my jaw, and I sunk to the ground, my eyes hardly open. However, my ears works perfectly fine, though altered with the initial shock my body was currently going through,

"John," He said scratchily, "Get him."

The man named John, who had an almost squeaky voice, spoke, "Which one?"

The man scowled, "The gay one. Get him. _Now_. I'll take care of the other one."

My senses were alarmed. Gay. I was gay. They were going to get me. I didn't know what that meant, but I was horribly terrified of what this man named John was going to do with me.

But nothing came, instead, I heard a punt and a loud, earth shattering cry from the other end of the alley, and it could only belong to one person.

"_AMI_!" I cried, reaching my hand out towards his cries of pain, as if reaching to him would take me to him.

Obviously it didn't.

I started sobbing now, and suddenly the man who had attacked me was no longer there. He was a blur in my mind. My eye was still bruised and bleeding shut, but I could make out the dark shadows at the end of the alley. The man named John kicking and torturing Ami, who was lying still on the floor, letting this man abuse him.

But for what?

"_The gay one."_

Oh no.

Was that why Ami was so nervous to be in the alley? Because he was afraid of being overheard? But why were they attacking him? Attack me! Take me!

Another punt and another scream. Why was no one helping him? Helping me? Couldn't people hear? We were outside for fuck's sake!

"Stop it!" I cried, trying to stand up, but an unnatural force was keeping me down.

Another tear of the air through a gut wrenching scream.

"No! Stop! _Stop it_!"

John kicked him once more and then grabbed Ami by the collar, lifting him up and throwing him against the wall behind him. John was saying something to Ami—scolding to him in his ear.

"Not him! Please _not him_!" I cried, and again, I heard no sign of someone coming to our rescue. Deep tears were streaming my cheeks now, yet my body could not stand up. The force was too strong around me.

I heard the click of the gun and a loud gasp from Ami, and I saw in the shadows a gun being pointed to his head.

"No…" I muttered to myself before calling out, "NO! Please. Not—not him. Please, take me! _TAKE ME_!"

"Harry!"

I turned to the entry of the alley, where I heard my name being called. Yes! Someone was coming to rescue us!

The gunman didn't hear the shout, however, instead, drilled the gun into Ami's skull, and Ami whimpered a bit more, shuddering at his touch.

"No!"

"_Harry!_" The voice sounded vaguely familiar. It wasn't one of the boys—but I know it. I just couldn't place it to a face.I ignored the voice and pleaded to the gunman,

"Please!"

"_Harry!_" This time the gunman heard the voice, as his head tilted toward the source. His eyes however went angry again, and his index finger moved towards the trigger—

"NO!" I shouted, reaching my hands out, trying to get to Ami. My heart pounding through my ears as I saw Ami take one large breath and squeeze his eyes shut, his lips trembling and a tear sliding down his cheek.

A gunshot sounded and echoed through the alley. I heard the blatant drop of a dead body, and the running feet of a man who had committed murder.

"NO!" I sobbed loudly.

"_**Harry!**_"

* * *

><p>My eyes bolted open and my breathing was quick paced. I scanned the room I was in—well lit, bright, yet slightly unfamiliar. I tried to control my breathing, still in shock from the dream I had just relived. I looked above me and saw that Louis was straddling my hips, holding down my shoulders and trying to calm me down. I scowled at the sight, feeling already annoyed with him trying to help me.<p>

I turned to my left and Zayn, Niall, and Liam were also surrounding me with concerned looks on their faces.

I looked at each one and growled, feeling a sense of inadequacy, "What are you _doing_ here?"

Louis' hand gripped my arm lightly, and the contact forced me to look up at him. His face was the worst. I hated looking at it. The concern, the fear, the worry. Ugh.

"You—you were sleeping."

I rolled my eyes, my hands pointing to the couch I was lying on, because it was obvious I was sleeping, "Clearly. And you have woken me up. _Dickwad_." I tried playing it cool, like I hadn't just had a freaking night terror, but the boys weren't buying it.

The boys looked at each other again nervously, and I glared at them, crossing my arms.

"What are you all staring at?" I snapped.

There was a long pause before someone spoke, "You were yelling in your sleep, mate." Niall said softly, fiddling with his fingers.

My breath hitched in my throat and I braced myself.

I knew I had been having these dreams recurrently. It was a pain in the fucking ass, to be honest. The past was in the past, why did I have to relive it in my dreams.

And to fucking top it all off, Louis had to be the one to calm me down and take care of me when he caught me in my night terror. It had to be him, of all people. I _don't_ need to be taken care of, and I don't need him.

"You were screaming words, too." Liam said quietly, taking a step forward and standing next to Louis, who still had a firm grip on my arm, though I was starting not to mind it.

I shook my head of my thoughts of Louis' hand and focused them on the other three boys, "What was I saying?"

"I don't think you want to know." Zayn interjected.

I didn't think I wanted to know, either. But at the same time, I almost _had_ to. I needed to know so I could try to prevent myself from saying it again.

"I do." I said, looking at him.

Zayn sighed, "You told us to never speak his name."

I swallowed thickly and looked slightly to Louis, who was staring at me. He nodded in agreement with Zayn and I shrugged.

"Just tell me."

Zayn looked from Louis to me and then spoke, "You kept saying Ami. You kept yelling 'take me instead.' You—we—you really scared me—_us_, mate."

I felt my chest tighten and another emotion swept through me—one of those emotions I had been trying to bury for the past nine months was easily finding its way into my conscious. And also, that guilty feeling swept through me again. All of these things that were going on in my head about him and that night all of those months ago was supposed to stay in my head. I don't want people worrying about me—that gives me more reason to worry about them worrying about me.

It just turns into one big huge fucking paradox that I'm not willing to try and decipher with quantum physics…or _whatever _the hell.

The guilt was setting in. I could feel it. The guilt for making my real friends worry. The guilt for everyone having me as their number one concern. They don't understand that I don't need them—they don't need to talk care of me.

I felt Louis' hand grip my arm again, and I looked up at him, that guilt only settling in deeper. Everything that happened between Louis and I _that_ night was replaying in my head—the fact that I told him I regretted what had happened made me feel even worse about myself.

But what did he expect? It was a hookup. And it was a hookup with me. He knew who I was, and he knew how I was like. Surely he didn't think I would be all rainbows and butterflies the next morning?

His thumb rubbing my skin sent shivers down my spine, and I immediately scolded myself. I could not let myself get so worked up over a simple touch by someone who I hadn't known for very long. I could not let myself get attached to someone who resembled someone I had just lost. That would be so very…weak of me. And I was not weak.

I may have been back then, but Lord knows that shit blew right out of the water.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a cigarette or a strong drink in my hand. I pushed those feelings or guilt and worry down far enough so I could at least put on this act that I didn't care—and that I didn't need them or anyone to look after me.

I stiffened at Louis' motions and showed off my typical, signature eye roll and smirk. I glanced up at Zayn,

"Yeah, well, that's why they call it a night terror."

Zayn sighed heavily at my comment and leaned towards me. His voice was above a whisper, "We should talk about this, mate—"

"No," I interjected, "There is nothing to talk about—"

"Yes there _is_, Harry!" Zayn exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air, "We know it's been hard on you these past nine months, but you're not going to get better if you don't talk about it with us—"

"THERE IS NOTHING TO TALK ABOUT!" I cried, snatching my arm out of Louis' grasp, causing him to flinch back in surprise.

Liam pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned, trying to compose himself, "Harry," He stated, "You're the _only_ one who didn't go to the therapy we were all recommended. We all went and we are all slowly dealing with Ami's death—"

"I hate when you say his name—" I muttered. That name was like a taboo—you just don't say it around me. I couldn't handle it; all of the feelings I push down come back at a powerful force whenever his name was spoken in front of me. It was like Ami was the key that unlocked all of the parts of me that were real.

"Why_ fucking_ should you! Refusing to say his name isn't going to make the problem go away, Harry. You have to face it sooner or later." Niall pointed out.

"I don't need to face anything. This isn't a problem. You are all over reacting. It was just a dream—shit happens. I need to let it go. I don't need you to help me."

"We're not saying you do, Harry. We just want to help you." Zayn bent down and let his hand ruffle my hair, "Please, Harry."

The sincerity in his eyes was uncanny. I had never seen it before. After Ami died, Zayn was sort of the one who got me where I needed to be. While most people thought Liam was Daddy Direction (and for the most part he was—he made sure I was alright, getting food in my stomach, and being on time) it was Zayn who put me on the path to real normalcy. He didn't treat me like I was a damaged little boy. He doesn't like the things that I do—like smoke and drink excessively—but he realizes that I need to do what I have to to sort of continue on with my life, as shitty as it is now.

Zayn used to be the quote unquote bad boy of the group. Now I was.

So now when he was showing me real concern and real worry (again) I knew what I was doing was really hurting him.

But I wasn't going to accept the help. Because I am not that little weak boy everyone perceived me to be. If I was going to deal with this, I needed to do it on my own.

"I don't want your help." I looked into Zayn's distraught eyes and I felt my face soften, "Really, I don't. I can do this on my own."

"We've been watching you, Harry. You're not even trying—"

"I—I know." I said, frowning, "But you can't force me to deal with shit. Just let me…fucking do it on my own, okay?"

Zayn opened his mouth to speak, but then the door to the room opened, and a stage manager peeper their head through the doorway,

"Boys? You have to be back at rehearsal in five." The woman, a tall blonde, noticed our distraught looks, but nodded curtly and shut the door.

Niall cleared his throat and went to leave, and he tugged on Liam's shirt, dragging him along with him,

"See you in there, Haz?"

I took a deep breath and nodded, "Yeah, I'll be in there."

The two boys left the room, and only Zayn and Louis were left with me. Zayn swallowed thickly and shook his head,

"I'm tired of seeing you like this, Harry."

"I know."

"This can't go on forever."

"I know." I repeated, now completely aware of Louis' presence. I had almost forgotten he was there, and honestly, I wasn't too sure I wanted to know his opinion of this debacle we were all facing.

Zayn nodded and patted me on the shoulder, "I know you can do it. You just need to start trying."

I did a mental eye roll in my head, but nodded to please him, "I know."

Zayn turned to leave the room and before the door shut, I heard him call out, "Get up and let's go to the studio!"

I swallowed thickly and felt Louis' hand on my arm again, and I realized—we were completely alone now.

I was afraid to look at him, for fear that all of my repressed feelings would immediately creep up again, and I wouldn't have the power to throw them away.

Luckily, I didn't have to.

"Well, that was interesting." Louis said, rubbing the back of his neck.

I rolled my eyes, "I don't think that's quite the right word." I snapped.

"What would you call it, then?"

I pondered, "Highly unnecessary."

Louis shrugged and looked to the door, a smile lingering on his lips, "I think they just care about you."

"They care too much." I said, crossing my arms.

"And why is that such a bad thing? I think you should be considered lucky."

"Whatever."

Louis nodded at my remark, and I'm assuming he took it as a queue to end the conversation, because he stood up from his position on the couch and headed for the door. His hand was on the handle when he paused and turned,

"Are we still on for working on the song tonight?"

Oh right, the song. "Uh, yeah, sure. After rehearsal."

I looked to Louis, and he smiled at me before he closed the door behind him.

I shuddered as I heard the click of the door shut. That smile was _all too familiar_.

Ami's smiling face popped up in my head, and I groaned. They were too similar—Ami and Louis. The resemblances between them were so amazing they were almost disturbing. I couldn't get the comparison out of my head. And the way Louis kissed me that night…it was almost like déjà vu…

I groaned and ran my hands through my hair, pulling at the ends of it.

No, this was _not_ good.

With Louis still around, it seemed my dreams about Ami were just going to continue to haunt me.

Because even though he was dead, I had to look at a constant reminder of him every day.


	8. Chapter Seven

Rehearsal didn't take as long as I expected, and soon enough, I was crammed in the small van, in between Zayn and Louis, who continued to shoot me worried looks. When our eyes met, he would quickly look away.

I would have thought it was adorable if he weren't looking at me just to make sure I wasn't having a nervous breakdown.

It was finally just Louis and I by the time we were dropped off at our flats. We both bid the driver adieu and I stalked right into our, trying to make a bee-line for my room when Louis' voice rang out,

"Harry, wait."

I stopped and turned on my heel, making sure to avoid all eye contact with him by glancing at our kitchen cabinets (my did they need to be polished), "Yes?"

Louis was holding his journal now, and he waved it in the air, giving me an expectant look, "The song. Remember? You said we would write it today."

Fuck me.

"Oh yeah," I said slowly, rubbing the back of my neck, "Right. Okay, uhm, yeah, let me just get, uhm—"

Louis gave me wide eyes—as if he thought he had done something wrong—and proceeded to stutter, "Oh—I'm—I'm sorry. Of course, we don't have to. Given everything—we can work on it tomorrow, or something, if you want—"

I held my hand up and silenced him, though the sight of him getting tongue tied was very endearing, even for my taste, "No, it's fine, really." I said, though my insides were churning with annoyance. I was starting to feel bad for Louis—always having to deal with my shit. And if I didn't want him, or anyone, to worry about me anymore, I had to start acting like I was perfectly fine.

I had to start acting like Louis' resemblance to Ami wasn't having an effect on me. It would be hard, but it needed to be done.

Louis sighed defeated, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." I muttered, taking a seat on the couch, leaning back and grabbing the pen and notebook that I had left on the table. I swallowed thickly as Louis walked to the other couch, sprawling his legs across it and leaning his head back on the arm rest,

"So…" He began, tapping his pen to his journal.

"So." I said bluntly.

"What's the story?"

If frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Of the song." Louis asked, looking at me, "What do we want the song to be about?" He asked again, leaning his head towards me.

I shrugged, trying not to look into Louis' eyes as I spoke, "Do you have any suggestions?"

Louis smiled again, and it took everything in me to not look away from that smile. But I had to keep trying. I couldn't let him see my weakness. I couldn't let him take care of me. This was my problem, not his.

"Well, maybe," He said shyly, "But I don't think you're gunna like the idea."

"Honestly, I'll take anything at this point. I just wanna get it done."

"Right," Louis said, "Well, I think the song should tell a story."

"Obviously."

"A personal one."

"I'm not Ed Sheeran, now." I teased easily.

At this Louis laughed, and my face broke out into a smile I couldn't control at the light, warm sound.

Ugh. What the hell was wrong with me? When did I become such a softie?

"I know," Louis said, jogging me out of my thoughts, a small smile playing on his lips, "I'm just saying—you have more experience than I do. And I'm sure there are lots of stories you'd be…uhm…_willing_ to tell."

I nodded in understanding, surprisingly not getting angry with him for insinuating that I'd want to write a song about my troubled past. However, the thoughts of it made me sad, and Louis noticed.

Which definitely wasn't helping my plan to try to keep my feelings to myself.

"Oh, Harry. I'm sorry." He said, looking down, "I just thought that maybe it'd help you sort of…get over it, if you wrote about it, or sang about it. It doesn't have to be specific—"

"No, I get it," I said, a bit more harshly than I intended. But I couldn't help it—it was a bad habit. "My sorry past is a perfect way to make money."

"No, I wasn't saying that."

"Then what were you saying?" I asked.

Louis frowned, looking at his journal in his hands, "I want to help you, Harry. I told you I'd always be here for you, regardless of the mean things you say to me. And I don't like seeing you, or anyone for that matter, obviously hurt. Let me help you."

I frowned. This wasn't exactly a part of my plan. In fact, this was the exact opposite of what I had wanted. Louis wasn't supposed to worry about me. He was supposed to let me do this on my own. Everyone was just supposed to leave me alone. Why couldn't Louis?

He was giving me that smile again—that all too familiar smile that made me want to pull my hair out. It was so horrifying to me, yet, I could not say no to it.

So there was no point in trying to fight him.

"Louis," I began, "I—I appreciate what you are trying to do. But I said I needed to do this on my own—"

"And I'm telling you that you don't have to."

I opened my mouth to retort, to tell him once again, that I didn't need him, but he interrupted me,

"I'm not saying you need to tell me what happened—I'm actually not sure if I want to know. But I'm telling you, you need to move on from this. I'm an outsider—I hardly know you—I'm the perfect person to help, Harry. So let me, _please_."

Louis said that last word with such earnest and sincere that I felt my heart beat erratically.

Shit, when did I get so emotional?

"Louis, there is _nothing_ you can do—"

"I can think of plenty." He said sternly.

"Like what?" I retorted.

"Like helping you write this song. Like getting you to write down what you're feeling. You will be _so much_ happier—"

"Who says I'm not happy now?"

"Harry," Louis said with a light laugh, "You drink and smoke to drown away your feelings and memories. Clearly, you aren't the happiest person on earth."

I frowned and crossed my arms. Was I really _that_ transparent?

"When did you become so observant?"

Louis smiled, "I always have been," A pause. "I'm not judging you Harry. I _understand_. You think I don't, but I really do _get_ you. It's okay to be sad. You don't have to pretend you're not. We all know you're trying to show everyone that you are strong. And maybe you're doing it to protect everyone else, or yourself…it doesn't matter. You need to stop. It's not doing you any good. You don't like to be vulnerable, but I've only been here a few weeks and I've already seen you in a vulnerable state—_three_ times."

At this, Louis gave me a knowing look, and I knew from his eyes that he was mostly thinking about the night we hooked up.

To be honest, it was something that had been playing on my mind. The fact that I had drunkenly hooked up with Louis, and was still thinking about it and analyzing it made me realize that there was something more to it.

I'm sure other people could have told me that, had they known, but I'm stubborn—sue my ass.

But maybe it was me—was I just looking for some comfort that night? Or did I really kiss Louis because I _wanted_ to? Because subconsciously, I did harbor something for him? Or was it because he was just so much like Ami, and a part of me was looking for something to fill that void Ami did when he was alive?

I ran my hand through my hair, pulling at the ends—because I knew the answer to that question.

This wasn't about Ami anymore.

Fuck _this_ shit.

There was no way I was going to let myself grow feelings for Louis. No way.

Ugh.

I swallowed thickly, now being forced to stare into Louis' eyes.

If I started to fall for Louis, there was a chance he could fall for me too. That couldn't happen. I wouldn't _let_ that happen. That's why I made that stupid rule in the first place. If he promised not to fall in love with me, everyone would be alright. I knew what kind of person I was. I could never make Louis happy the way he deserves, or wants to be.

That didn't change the fact that my feelings for him were suddenly making themselves known. And I hated that. I needed them to _stop_. If I let myself grow feelings for Louis, and something bad happens, I'd be stuck in the same place I was in now.

And I knew I was a mess. I was tired of putting on this act. Putting on the act was exhausting as it is—but now with writing this song and now stopping me from doing anything with Louis that could potentially harm both of us.

Now, Louis was staring at me with intense eyes, his hair was falling forward and his lips were curved into a sorrow frown. My eyes glazed over the features of his face, and it took everything inside of me now to reach out, softly caress his cheek and tell him I would be okay, as long as he was there with me.

…Jesus, how could I have possibly gone from bad boy Harry to a love sick puppy in the span of five minutes?

This sucks.

"Harry?"

I shook my head and was met with Louis' piercing eyes again. He nodded at me, "You alright?"

I returned the nod, "Sure."

Louis leaned back, "So what do you say?"

"About what?"

Louis sat up and leaned forward towards me, "We need to write a song, right? And songs contain feelings. You've written songs before, haven't you? Writing songs about your feelings shouldn't be too hard. I think you should write everything down—everything you are feeling. And then we can work that into a song—"

"Woah," I said, very hesitant about my past being worked into a song, "I don't want the things I'm feeling being written into a song that's going to be exposed to the public."

Louis rolled his eyes, "You could always put your feelings into a song while being discrete, Harry."

I considered this, because really, there didn't seem to be a flaw in his plan. We just had to be careful.

Very, very careful.

Plus, we needed to get this song done. I was really tired of having Simon up my butthole every hour telling me it needed to get done.

"Alright," I said finally, gripping my paper and pen harder in my hand, "I'll do it."

"Great, I'm glad." Louis said, "I think you'll feel better too. I want you to, at least."

He sounded so genuine, that I didn't know how to respond. The past nine months had been full of everyone ignoring my feelings and my well-being. Mostly because I had wanted them to. But the second I open myself up, even a little bit, everyone suddenly seems to care.

Or maybe, they had all of this time, but were too afraid to say anything.

I don't blame them—I was being kind of a prick.

"Thanks." I said dumbly, leaning back into the couch and twirling the pen in my hand. I heard Louis sigh and get up,

"Right. I'm going to leave you to it, then."

"You're _leaving_?" I asked, startled. I wasn't entirely sure if I could do this—write down my feelings—by myself. It's not like I needed Louis' help or anything, but if I was left alone, I wasn't sure what my mind was capable. It couldn't be trusted.

"Yes." Louis said grabbing his jacket off of a chair and slipping it on, "I told my mum I'd go visit her today." He noticed my worried look and laughed, "Don't worry, I'll be back tomorrow morning."

I grimaced slightly and looked back down at the paper in my hands. If course, it was only prudent that once I realize my feelings for the newbie, he has to go and spend the night at his mother's, leaving me to dwell even more on the feelings that I knew weren't good for either of us!

"Okay," I said, "Well, have a good time."

Louis smiled at me, obviously pleased. His eyes were shining as he closed to door behind him, "See you tomorrow—and don't forget to write!"

The door slammed shut and I was left with a pen and paper in my hands.

Writing songs was actually very easy for me. But to be honest, I had never written a song about myself before. When Ami and I wrote songs, we usually wrote about general things—topics that everyone went through, but we had not necessarily been through them.

So writing about something that had happened to me was harder than it looked.

But what was harder was picking what to write about: my growing feelings for Louis, or my past feelings for Ami, who was dead.

I groaned and dragged a hand down my face, still looking at the pen and paper.

This was going to be a _long_ night.


	9. Chapter Eight

_Disclaimer:_ Alright y'all, sorry for the long wait, but here it is! This chapter is wicked long, and the story is coming to a bit of a close…I would say two to three more chapters left! There are some things you should know about this chapter: 1. The song that Louis sings is **not** one I wrote myself, it is actually the song _Porcelain_, by **Marianas Trench**. I give them full credit to the song, but for the purposes of the story, we're just going to pretend that Louis wrote it. 2. Also, it's longer than the rest of the chapters, so that might possible mean the next chapter will be shorter.

Hope y'all like it!

~Raven x

* * *

><p>"You know, Louis, I was surprised when you said you were coming by."<p>

I stared up at my mother; my tea cup cradled in between my two hands. The relationship I had with her was probably different from most son/mother relationships. My mother was my best friend—I told her everything, _especially_ when it came to guys.

This time however, it was different. I wasn't sure why—maybe because my feelings were a bit different than I've had for any other guy.

And I was utterly confused about those feelings.

Regardless, I needed _someone_ to confide in. And I knew the only person who would listen was back in the town of Doncaster.

"Well," I said, "It's been a while since I've been home."

"It's been a month and a half, dear." She corrected, sitting down across from me, and giving me a look. "You wouldn't be home unless there was something going on." She paused, "So what is it?"

I sighed defeated. I hated when my mom was right.

"Is it the band?" She asked when I stayed silent.

I shrugged. _Damn it._

"Kind of." I returned, not meeting her gaze.

"Is it your flat mate?" She asked again, taking a sip of her tea.

I looked up from the spot I was staring at on the table and my mother's look softened in understanding.

"What's the matter with him?"

I took a deep breath, knowing the minute I opened my mouth everything I had been feeling the past few weeks would come flying out of me. It would be out of my control. Maybe it was because it was my mother—my confidant since I had realized who I was and was more open with myself.

Or maybe it was because I seriously didn't know what I was going to do.

"Louis, honey?" My mother asked, shaking me out of my thoughts, "Are you okay?"

I shook my head and she moved her seat so she was sitting next to me. And she patted her hand on my knee—her way of comforting me—and smiled softly,

"Tell me what's wrong." She said.

"It's him." I finally said.

"Who?"

"Harry. It's him. He's—he's—"

"He's what?"

"He's driving me crazy!" I cried, running my hands through my hair, "He's upset at me, and then he's mad at me, and then he's upset in general, and then he's taking it out on me, for NO reason, and then he's—he's—_confusing_ me, and now we have to write this stupid song together and I don't know what to do because this is something I've never dealt with before." I stared at my mum, letting out a harsh breath and wiping a stray tear from my eye, "This is something I've never felt before."

My shook her head and gave me a sympathetic look, "What do you feel?"

"I don't know." I muttered quickly.

"When I say 'Harry'," She said knowingly, "What do you say?"

I blinked, "I say…I say…I need to help him."

"Why do you need to help him?"

"Because he's damaged." I said easily.

"Anything else?"

"I want to help him. I—I care about him."

My mother smirked, "_Anything_ else?"

"…no?" I said, however feeling a burning sensation in my stomach, indicating I knew I was lying about the biggest 'problem' I had with Harry.

"Louis," She began, after a long pause, "You're my son. I know you like the back of my hand. There is something else you are not telling me about Harry, and I already have a hunch as to what it is."

I sucked in a deep breath, the image of Harry flashing across my mind. He was looking at me with his green eyes. It was only a second though—that second that I saw a different side to him. That second that made me believe he was a good person. That second that made me _know_ he was a good person. It was those moments, those tiny seconds of time that my heart drummed wildly against my chest. It made me question everything I ever thought about Harry and it made me realize the one thing I really did believe about Harry, and about myself.

There were feelings there. I knew that. I always had. I knew how strong they were, too.

I just had to admit it to myself.

It was a stupid thing, to admit you're in love with a person who acts like Harry does now. But that's just it…I knew the person Harry _could_ be. I knew the person Harry was nine months ago. He was...amazing.

Yet, I knew I loved the Harry that I saw every day now.

It was confusing, and wonderful, and heartbreaking all at the same time.

And my mother knew that instantly.

When she didn't wait for me to speak, she spoke for me, "You're in love with him." She concluded.

I laughed and shook my head, admitting defeat, "I'm not supposed to be," I said, thinking about Harry's golden rule.

"Why not?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

"He told me not to." I said sadly, taking a shaky sip of my tea.

"He did?"

"Loud and clear."

She blinked, "Do you think it's because he doesn't want to hurt you?"

"No." I concluded immediately, "He's only thinks about himself."

My mother tutted and took another sip of her tea, "I wouldn't be so sure, Louis."

I scoffed, "Why? You don't know him like I do."

"I don't need to," She smiled softly, pointing to my neck, "That bruise on your neck indicates you and Harry had a bit of a rendezvous you didn't tell me about, or," She took another sip of her tea, "Someone pinched you with a rubber band on your neck. Which I find highly unlikely given your access to rubber bands is low."

I scowled and I placed my hand over the hickey on my pulse, wondering how in the _world_ it was still there. And wondering how my mother was able to spot it and also, how she knew it was from Harry.

Mother's instinct, I suppose.

"With that being said," She continued, "People don't go out of their way to leave marks on another person's body without it meaning something. Especially someone who you're living with, and someone you know you are going to see every day." She pointed to my neck, "I'm sure there are more of those marks somewhere, and I don't know if I want to know where. But considering you two do live together, it's highly possible feelings between the both of you started to grow. And it's you, Louis," She grinned at me, "How could anyone not fall in love with you?"

I rolled my eyes, smiling. She always knew how to make me feel better, "You're my mother—you're supposed to say that."

"I know." She shrugged, "But it's true. You know how great you are." She paused, "Maybe Harry needs to know how great he is. He must be wonderful, if you've taken an interest in him."

I hummed, "He's something else." I rolled my eyes, a smile playing along my lips as I thought about Harry, "I don't know why. He only treats me and everyone else like crap. But…but then there are these moments when I see something different in him. He was a good person once; he's just had it rough. I know he can change. I know he can be that person again."

"Well Lou, you know you can't fix people." She warned.

"I know—but that doesn't change the fact that I want to."

She smiled at me and patted my knee again, "I think the first thing you should do is show him what you see in him."

I leaned back into my chair, "I've tried. He won't listen to me when I go on and talk to him."

"Then don't talk." She mused.

"What do you mean?" I scratched the back of my neck.

"Isn't it obvious?" She asked.

"Obviously not." I repeated in the same tone.

"Louis!"

"_Mum_!"

"You have to sing! Louis, you have a beautiful gift in song writing. Write a song about him! Or for him! If he's not going to listen to you when you talk…he might listen to you when you sing."

I frowned and considered this. While my mother was right on a lot of levels, I wasn't entirely sure if writing a song for him was a good idea. He might take it too hardly.

On the other hand, writing this song and singing it to Harry might open a door for conversation.

And I knew in that moment I was willing to take that chance.

"Alright." I said suddenly.

"Hmm?" My mother asked, taking the last sip of her tea.

"I'm gunna write the song." I stood up and grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair, "I need to do it now, before tomorrow."

"What's tomorrow?" My mum asked.

"It's reveal day for the song Harry and I are supposed to write."

"You're going to do it in front of the whole band?" She asked, surprised.

"It's the only way I know Harry will listen!" I moved and kissed my mother on the cheek. "I need to go back to my flat. I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer."

"That's alright, sweetheart." She kissed my cheek, "I hope everything works out, and please keep me updated."

"'Course!" I went to the door and opened it, "Love you!" I called, before slamming the door behind me.

I called the car company and in an instant, a car was in front of my house to give me a lift to my flat. The ride was long, and it would give me enough time to plan and write the song I was going to sing.

I just really hoped my plan worked.

By the time I had arrived back at the house, Harry was passed out, his arm dangling off the side of the couch, with his pen lying loosely between his fingers.

I couldn't but smile at the sight, and my heart fluttered in my chest as I took in his body sprawled out.

He was adorable. Especially when he slept. He had an angelic look to him, and his lips almost curved into a serene smile—not the horrendous scowl he always wore on his face.

I leaned down and took the pen out of the light grasp of his fingers, and when our fingertips brushed, his eyes peeped open.

He blinked a few times before his gaze focused on me, and he sat up, ruffling his hair and straightening out his black shirt,

"Oh, uh, h—hey." He stammered, and the realization I had about him only became clearer in the vulnerable state I saw him in. He looked around and looked me up and down, "Was…was I having another nightmare?" The fear in his eyes becoming more evident as the seconds passed.

I sat down next to him, shaking my head, "No, I just got home, actually."

"Oh, oh!" He said, "I thought you weren't coming home until tomorrow." Harry's tone of relief spread through my like wildfire, and my heart drummed in my chest.

"I decided to come home early."

The small pull of his lips at my words was probably nothing, but I knew I would be thinking about it for the rest of the night, "How—how was your mum's?" He asked, still half asleep and rubbing his eyes.

I shrugged, "It was alright." I pointed to the pen and the paper on the table, "How was writing?"

He sucked in a deep breath, "It was…interesting."

"How so?"

He smirked, "Does it surprise you that I don't want to talk about it?"

I couldn't help but smile, "Not even in the slightest."

He laughed and ran a hand through his hair again, "Well, if it makes you feel any better," He lifted the paper from the table and waved it in the air, "I wrote the song."

"You—you_ did_?"

For the first time, he smiled out of pure and utter joy, happiness, and excitement, "Yeah! I mean, it wasn't actually too hard—writing alone. I—I hope you don't mind, Tommo. Especially after what you told me. I—" He paused, as if he had to catch himself to make sure he said the right thing, or avoid saying the wrong thing, "You were right," He finally said, "I needed to write it all down…and now we have an awesome song for tomorrow because of it."

"That's great, Harry."

"Yeah." He said breathlessly, a smile still playing on his lips.

I swallowed thickly when our locked eyes broke apart, "I actually wrote a song too, on the way back from my mum's." I laughed, rubbing the back of my neck.

Harry's eyes widened, "Really?" He blinked, "Can I hear it?"

I shook my head in response, still smirking. "Oh no," I said, watching Harry groan and roll his eyes playfully, "You'll just have to wait until tomorrow to see."

"We show the boys and Simon our songs tomorrow, don't we?" He asked.

"Yeah."

Harry stood up and patted me on the shoulder, "Believe it or not, I am actually kind of excited. Aren't you?"

I smiled a bit at him as we began to climb the steps towards our respective bedrooms. There was a spark in Harry now that I had never seen before. He was smiling, and he was happy. Was it the song writing that made him this way? Was he so exuberant because he wasn't harboring any bad feelings about Ami anymore?

Was he happy because _I_ gave him the idea? Was he happy to see _me_ walk through the door so late at night?

With these thoughts in mind, the prospect of singing the song to Harry the next day was looking better and better,

"Oh trust me," I said, "I am very excited."

* * *

><p>I slept soundly through the night (and so did Harry, as I heard no screams of terror from his room), so soundly in fact, that I had slept through my actual alarm, and another form of loud noise forced me out of my slumber,<p>

"Louis! Get up, you _prick_! We're going to be late!"

I felt a pair of legs at my side, and I stiffened at the contact of hands on my shoulders, shaking me.

Harry.

"Come on, Tommo!" He growled, shaking my shoulders lightly, "You need to get up if you want our songs to be approved!"

I was still processing Harry's soft hands on my bare shoulders—the feel of his touch keeping my eyes closed and wishing it would never end. I blinked my eyes open and was met immediately with Harry's piercing eyes,

"Come on. Get up now! We need to go!"

I gripped his wrists, laughing a bit, "Alright, alright, I'm awake!"

He let go of my shoulders and leaned back, and it was then that I noticed he was straddling me.

On top of me.

On my bed...with his face mere inches from mine, his breath tickling my cheeks…

Woah, déjà vu.

His eyes softened as mine came into focus, and it was then I really noticed how close in proximity we were. It took all of the control I had not to grab him by his soft curls and kiss him until I was dizzy enough to slip into another deep sleep.

As I came to this fantasy, he shook his head and pulled back, his cheeks flushing rapidly.

Could he have been thinking the same thing?"

"Can you get up now?" He laughed, "We really _do_ need to go."

I collected myself and cleared my throat, "Yeah, right. Sure. Erm, good morning." I said stupidly.

Harry, who had gotten off of me and was now making his way for his bedroom, nodded awkwardly, "'Morning."

I watched him shut my door softly behind him, and it took me a few minutes after analyzing the closeness of Harry in my head to realize that if I didn't get ready within the next ten minutes, Harry and I would miss the car that was supposed to take us to the studio.

I jumped out of bed and did the best I could with the time I had to get ready and look somewhat presentable.

I was running down the stairs, my journal in hand, when Harry opened the front door to see the driver pulling into our street.

"Look at that," He said to me, "Perfect timing. You ready?"

I nodded, clutching my journal tighter in my hands, "Yeah, let's go."

He hummed and walked out the door, and I followed him into the car. The driver shut the door behind us and he spoke,

"So," He tapped my journal with his finger, "You going to tell me about your song?"

I shook my head, "You'll hear it along with everyone else."

"No fair." He pouted, and I almost had to do a double take—it was like Harry had done a complete 360 in personality overnight.

It was this that made his one rule (that I had _already_ broken) even more impossible to follow.

"You wouldn't tell me about your song, either!" I retorted.

Harry shrugged and rolled his eyes, "Touche."

"Ha!" I said, smiling in victory.

"Oh shut up."

I grinned and shot back with another snide remark, which he returned, and the car ride continued on like that until we got to the studio.

It was weird—to have banter with Harry as if the past few weeks had never happened…as if he had never disliked me.

However, it was also almost the easiest thing to do.

Strange.

We exited the car when we arrived and strolled into the studio, the rest of the boys and Simon already taking their seats and discussing album titles,

"What about…_Down All Day_?"

"Oh shut it, Niall—" Zayn smirked.

"It was just a suggestion!"

"It's redundant!" The Bradford boy laughed.

"It's _clever_!"

"Guys!" Simon interrupted, clearing his throat as Harry and I entered. He turned his attention to us, as did Liam, Zayn and Niall, and Simon gave us a look,

"I take it you have a song for us, boys?"

"Actually," I said, "We have two."

Harry answered to Simon's confused eyebrow raised, "We both wrote a song separately."

"But you were supposed to write it together." Simon pointed out, frowning.

"I know," Harry said, shuffling, "But…To—Louis," He corrected, "Sort of did help me write this song…in a non-conventional way." He nudged me with his elbow and I nodded at him,

"Yeah, Harry helped me write my song too," I said. Knowing perfectly well he helped me, alright…in more ways than one.

"Well that's great!" Simon said, clapping his hands together, "Alright, well, which one of you wants to go first?"

I raised my hand immediately, "I will."

"Great."

I walked over to the front of the studio and tapped Niall on the shoulder, gaining his attention, "Hey, can you play for me?"

"Sure!" The blonde said excitedly, grabbing his guitar from behind his chair as I explained the acoustic chords to him.

I stood in front of the studio, clutching my journal in my hands and feeling five pairs of eyes drilling into me. However, my eyes were fixed on Harry, and his intense yet intrigued stare he had on me.

Great.

My palms began to sweat as I gripped my journal tighter. This was it. This was where everything was going to be put out on the table. Everything I was feeling, and everything I thought about Harry was going to put shown through song in front of everyone who really mattered to him.

This could potentially make my life better, or even more of a living hell.

While the idea of my life getting worse lingered heavily in my mind, a voice in my head told me it was still worth it, no matter what the outcome.

With that thought dominant, I nodded to Niall and spoke,

"I've named this song 'Porcelain'."

"Interesting." I heard Simon mutter, taking a glance at Harry and then back to me, before Niall began strumming the chords and I began to sing.

I looked at Harry, allowing myself to drown into his gaze and show him everything I had been dying to tell him,

_You thought by now  
>You'd have it figured out<br>You can't erase the way it pulls  
>When seasons change<br>It hurts sometimes  
>To find where you begin<br>You are perfect porcelain_

I sucked in a deep breath, watching the faces of everyone in the room. While Liam, Zayn and Simon were listening for leisure, Harry was now watching me closely, and I could tell he was hanging onto my every word.

Just like I had hoped.

_The slow and simple melody  
>Of tears you cannot keep from me<br>It's alright if you don't know what you need_

_I'm right here when  
>You need someone to see<br>It's not speak  
>Or forever hold your peace<br>It's alright to take time  
>And find where you've been<br>You are perfect porcelain_

I was now obviously looking at Harry as I sang, and he very well took notice. His look that was once complacent had changed into a frown. And he was looking at me with fire in his eyes. He seemed confused; yet, I could tell everything I was singing was processing fast in his brain. I could see the wheels turning and the realization was dawning on him with every second that passed.

Well, he was getting the message.

_The slow and simple melody  
>Of tears you cannot keep from me<br>It's alright if you don't know what you need_

_Oh, when your heart releases,__  
>You won't fall to pieces<br>You'll let those old diseases lie  
>Oh, and your heart releases,<em>_  
>You won't fall to pieces<br>And your breath comes crashing in  
>Like perfect porcelain<em>

I was letting my voice and my heart take control over me now. The lyrics were spilling from my lips in a beautiful, melodic way that had everyone entranced. I was belting out all of the lyrics—I was letting myself feel _everything_.

I prayed that Harry felt it, too. I closed my eyes as I sang the last verse.

_The slow and simple melody  
>Of tears you cannot keep from me<br>It's alright if you don't know what you need_

I smiled as I sang the last lyric, and I opened my eyes to a round of applause from the boys and Simon. I looked to Niall, who was grinning wildly and clapping his hands, and I took a bow.

When I stood up straight, my eyes scanned the room for Harry's seat, and I frowned when I saw it was empty.

I felt my heart drop when I saw the door to the studio slam shut and Harry's black leather boot squeak against the floor.

"Harry." I said to myself, looking back to the boys, who had confused looks on their faces.

"What is he on about?" Liam asked, crossing his arms, "I thought the song was _amazing _Lou."

"Thanks, but—"

"That's not like him…to just up and leave." Zayn commented.

"Well lately, he has been like that, hasn't he? He just doesn't care anymore." Niall said sadly.

"That's not true." I shot back.

"Why do you say that?" Zayn asked.

"He's—he's just got a lot of problems. A lot of unresolved feelings. He's just rediscovered them. Couldn't you tell? Hasn't he seemed better, lately?" I asked, hopeful they had.

However, the three boys and even Simon shrugged

"Honestly, Lou," Liam began, "I couldn't. He's been this way for so long; it's hard to remember what he was once like."

I was silent, unable to argue with that logic, and Liam sighed, "I should probably go find him—"

"No!" I said, straightening my posture, "I'll find him."

"Are you sure?" Simon asked.

I nodded fiercely, knowing I couldn't let Harry get away without talking to him, "Yes, positive."

I gave everyone a short nod and headed for the door Harry stormed out of, my heart racing in my chest and feeling it fall to the put of my stomach.

I had to find him, I couldn't let him just walk away.

He deserved to know the truth—about me, about how I felt, and more importantly, about himself.


	10. Chapter Nine

I was not one to ever chase after anyone—in fact, in most situations like this one, I most often thought of myself to let the person who ran out go and run. In most situations, I had no reason to go after someone after they've run off.

This time, however, was terribly different.

I didn't have to think twice about trying to find Harry. My business with him was unfinished—I still had so much I wanted to say to him. I still wanted to see him.

I could not just let him _go_.

After I had run out of the room, there was only one other place Harry could go, as the building we were in, especially the secured floor we were on, only had so many rooms.

I walked down the narrow, empty hallway and into the hallway adjacent to the one I was previously in. I stared down the hallway at the only other room Harry could be in.

I walked at a slow pace—for what reason, I couldn't tell you. It wasn't as if I was avoiding the inevitable, but perhaps it was because I was bracing myself for the worst to happen. But at the same time, I was wildly open to the possibility that the greatest thing to happen to me was about to happen when I opened that door.

The door now stood in front of me; and I stared at it as if it were teasing me. I knew Harry was behind that door, and I knew things were going to change the second I opened it.

Because, _fuck_, I just sang a song about him, to him, and expressing my feelings for him.

If things between Harry and I weren't fucked up before, well, they sure as hell were going to be now.

I sucked in a deep breath and let my hand rest on the handle, debating exactly how I was going to handle this.

I go in…and then what?

Interrogate?

Stay silent?

Wait for him to speak?

I closed my eyes and turned the door handle, opening the door swiftly.

Sure enough, Harry was standing in the middle of the room, trying to light up a cigarette with his back turned towards the door.

At the sound of the door opening, he turned quickly, rolling his eyes at the sight of me and turning back around to his cigarette.

"Go away." I heard him mumble, before he finally got a light.

"Why did you leave?" I asked, almost accusingly.

He didn't answer at first, and it was only a few seconds later when I heard him mumble something under his breath, but it was incoherent to me.

"What did you say?" I asked.

He took a deep breath and turned around, his eyes piercing through me like fire, "Whydid _you _write that song?" Harry shot back, "Do you know how…how humiliating that was!"

I shook my head. Humuiliated? How? What? Shouldn't I be the one who was humiliated?

I only sang it to show him! Surely he had to know that!

…

Well if he didn't, then I needed to tell him. He needed to know the truth. And I needed to be the one to tell him.

"B—because you need to be told the truth! You need to understand!" I said, pointing a finger at him.

"No." Harry protested unsteadily, shaking his head.

I sucked in a shattering breath. Well, it's now or never.

"You're an _amazing_ person, Harry. You're funny; you're smart as hell and incredibly talented. As much as you make everyone believe you're the biggest asshole, I know better."

"Shut _up_—!" Harry cried, grabbing a fistful of his hair with his hands in frustration—in agony. He didn't want to hear what I had to say. Or, he just didn't want to believe it.

I ignored him, however, "I really do." I said softly, "You put up this wall to protect yourself from getting hurt—by putting on this act that you hate the world—but it's crumbling down. You're allowing it to fall because you want to change. You—you're letting it fall because of me! Because I'm reminding you of the person you can be!" I cried.

"No." He shook his head and gripped the side of his head, his fingers digging into his scalp,

"You're afraid of what you are feeling," I kept my voice steady as I continued, "I understand that. You're guarded. You don't know what to do." I swallowed thickly, "I can help you. I want to help you, and that's the truth."

"God _damn it_, Louis!" Harry exclaimed, ripping his hands from his head and walking around in circles, shaking out his hands, "Just stop talking!"

"Why?" I exclaimed, "Because you can't handle the truth? You have to face it sometime, Harry. It's not going to go away just because you are afraid of it!"

"I don't want to hear it!" Harry cried, his eyes filled with an emotion I couldn't really describe—almost like guilt, but more like regret at the same time. "All the things I have believed to be true have turned out to be lies." He paused and voiced out in a mocking tone, as if he were mimicking others,

"'Oh Harry, it's okay, Ami will make it through. Harry, I'm so sorry for your loss. You'll be alright. Everything happens for a reason, he's in a better place.' Fuck!" He shouted, "Ami didn't make it through. He didn't live. _He died_. Those people weren't sorry for my _fucking_ loss. And I'm not alright. I'm never going to be! There is no better place than here on Earth! Being with me is the better place! Things don't happen for just reasons—Ami was taken from me by some stupid unknown force that I can't control!" He swallowed the thick lump in his throat and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve,

"So _no,_" He said softly, "I don't want to hear what you want me to believe is the truth, because in the end I'll see that you were lying. Just like everyone else has." He finished.

"Well then what the _hell _do you want me to say to you then?" I asked, suddenly feeling a tightening in my chest. Hearing Harry speak so openly made my head spin.

Harry gave out an exasperated laugh and shrugged dramatically, "Tell me a fucking lie. Everybody else does—why should _you_ be any different?"

"You want me to lie to you?" I asked in disbelief, "Deliberately?"

He nodded and crossed his arms, "Go for it. It's nothing new."

"You want a lie?"

"Yes."

"Fine!" I took a deep breath, knowing what I was about to say would make his world come crashing down on him. But I was willing to help him rebuild it. I wanted to rebuild it.

"You asked for it, Harry, so I'm going to give it to you," I said, my voice breaking.

"Lay it on me." He asked, most likely preparing for the worst.

I paused as I let the reality of the words swimming in my head sink in and I let it out in a breathy whisper, "I don't love you."


	11. Chapter Ten

I hope you all like this chapter! Thank you all so much from the bottom of my heart for reading my stories! It makes me want to write more and you all inspire me! So thank you!

-RAY x

* * *

><p>"<em>I don't love you."<em>

The words came out faster than I had intended them to, and I found myself immediately covering my mouth with my palm, wishing I had never said the words in the first place.

While it was true my feelings for Harry were strong, I didn't exactly want him knowing how strong they were.

My wide eyes were now drilling into Harry, who continued to stare at _me_ with a cold, hard, nervous stare. He swallowed thickly, blinking a few times before he opened his mouth and let out a shuddering breath,

"I told you not to fall in love with me."

I swallowed nervously, blinking away tears as I nodded, "I-I know."

"You promised me," Harry said, his eyes watering and his chin quivering, "You promised me you wouldn't fall in love with me, Louis."

"I know, Harry—"

"Why would you _do _that? Why would you do something as stupid as fall in love with _me_? I even asked you not to. And you _promised_-!" He demanded.

Louis took a moment to scoff at Harry, running a hand through his hair, "You make it sound like falling in love with you is such a bad thing!"

"That's because _it is_!"

Louis looked at him in disbelief, "How? What's so bad about love, huh? Is it the feeling you get-?"

"No!—"

"The thought of another person being close to you-?"

"_No_—"

"Then_ what_-?"

"People diewhen they fall in love with me, Louis!" He cried harshly, the tears falling freely down his cheeks.

My heart dropped into my stomach, and I could feel into turning into acidic acid as his words sunk deeper into my mind.

People die.

People _die_?

I stared at him, almost shell shocked, and watched as he wiped his eye of a fallen tear. His chest was heaving frantically, and his eyes were wild.

"Harry," I began, but I was cut off.

"No, let me speak," Harry said, holding up his hand, "There is something you should know."

I nodded for him to continue and he took a deep breath, "Ami is dead because of me."

I shook my head; letting his words swirl in my brain again, finding it incredibly hard to believe them. It was almost impossible that what he was saying was true.

My mind wandered to the articles about Ami and Harry I had found on the internet, especially the conspiracy theory…

_Harry Styles was with Ami the night he died…did anyone take a moment to think the curly headed perfect boy may not be so perfect after all?_

But that couldn't possibly be true…could it? Harry was only a teenager! What could he have possibly done to be a part of Ami's death?

He couldn't have possibly killed Ami—Harry wouldn't let anyone so much as speak his name…

Then again, that could be a telltale sign that he _did _have something to do with his death. The way Harry refused to talk about Ami and his death…it could be a way of suppressing his guilt…

I shook my head again, releasing my brain of the horrid thoughts. No way. Harry may be a dickhead sometimes, but I hardly think he was capable of killing someone.

But if what Harry was saying was true…then what exactly did he mean?

I shot him a confused look, "How could that be true?"

Harry took a deep breath and sat on a nearby couch, letting his head fall into his hands, his fingers raking through his curls, "Ami was murdered, Louis."

My heart twisted at his words, and I took a seat across from him on the opposite couch. I stared at him—that still didn't confirm or deny if Harry had directly something to do with the murder. I had to ask him the burning question before my chest exploded,

"Did you kill Ami, Harry?"

Harry chuckled darkly and shook his head, "Not directly—but I might as well have."

"What happened, Harry? And I want the truth, not some bullshit you tell the press to keep them at bay and to keep them in the dark. I want to know everything."

Harry looked at me with an almost hurt look—as if him telling me would start a third world war. He swallowed hard and his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He sighed and leaned forward,

"Okay, I'll tell you." He took a deep breath and began, "Well, you know Ami was in the band right? Okay, well, we were all at a pub one night, and, and, and he said he needed to get out for some fresh air. Which wasn't like Ami at all—he loved being at parties and pubs and getting shit faced. I asked him if he wanted to go alone, and he said he needed me to go with him. So I followed him out the back door of the pub and into an alley. You with me?"

I nodded, my eyes wide with interest and he continued, "Okay, right, so, we went into the alley next to the pub, and he was acting kind of weird, like he was anxious, which again, was really weird of him. So I asked him what was wrong, and he shrugged it off, but he kept pacing, which he never does. He was always so cool and collected, so I was getting nervous.

"He saw I was worrying and he put his hands on my neck, telling me that 'he had something to tell me'. And then all of the sudden, he was just looking at me funny. And then I just remember being up against the wall, and he was standing really close to me…"

Harry's voice began to crack and he looked down at his wringing hands. He ran his hand through his curls and looked at me again,

"And then…and then all of the sudden, he was kissing me. And it was…it was so weird, ya know? He was my best friend, and I _knew_ I was gay—everyone knew. The media did too, and the fans did as well. But…but I didn't know he was. I never thought he thought of me that way. But I kept kissing him, I don't know why. I wasn't sure why I suddenly started feeling differently towards him—because I had always seen him as a friend. But something changed in me—like a screw that was loose was being tightened. That's really the only way I can explain it. He kissed me, and things for me—for us—changed. It's weird and stupid and so…so fucking _girly_, but that's what it is. And I realized then that Ami had always been that…that _person _for me, you know?"

I nodded, feeling my stomach drop at his words but urged him to continue. He nodded curtly and did so,

"And then…and then all of the sudden he was taken away from me, and some guy was pinning me down…and another guy had Ami…and…and…"

Harry looked down and wiped a few more tears from his eyes. He looked up and smiled sheepishly, tears streaming his cheeks, his cheeks and lips red, "S—sorry."

"No," I whispered, leaning over and putting a soft hand on his knee, "Don't apologize for crying. It's okay." I said soothingly.

"I've only ever cried in front of Ami." He muttered sadly.

I was surprised when he didn't push my hand away, or yell at me for seeing him cry, or tell me to leave. Instead, he placed his hand gingerly on top of mine; squeezing it as if it were the only comfort he was ever going to receive.

"Right," He continued, ignoring what I had said, "So, uhm, so this other guy had Ami, and…and the person who held me down told the other guy, John, to 'get the gay one.' And at first, I thought he meant me. Because I was openly out and stuff. But—but then he went for Ami, and I realized why he was so nervous. He was afraid of being seen. He must have known he was being followed. Or that we were being followed, to this day I still don't know."

Harry sniffed and his grip tightened on my hand, "So," His voice cracked, "So the other guy, John, kept beating Ami and kicking him and I told them to _stop_, Louis." Harry was sobbing now, unable to control it anymore, "I told them to leave him alone. I told them to take me instead. But they didn't listen to me. John just kept beating the shit out of him—I told them not to take him! But they did…and…" Harry swallowed hard and looked straight ahead, with emptiness in his eyes,

"…and then John took his gun and shot three bullets into Ami's skull."

I sucked in a deep breath and squeezed his knee again, letting my thumb run over it soothingly. There was a devastating silence in the room, but I felt like I could hear my heart drumming in my ears.

Everything was suddenly starting to make sense.

The way Harry seemed to hate me—how he kept saying I resembled Ami. I was a reminder of him. No wonder Harry never wanted to see me or be around me. It hurt him too much.

He hated hearing Ami's name because it reminded him of the devastating scene he saw.

The screaming during the night and the words he was screaming while he had his night terrors. He was having recurring dreams of that night. Not only did he have to see me during the day, but then he had to go to bed and relive everything that happened.

No wonder he was always in such a shit mood with everyone.

"So that's why I told you not to fall in love with me." Harry whispered, wiping his eyes, "Don't you see? Bad shit happens when people do that. And it's because of me. I'm too well known. People want me dead, so of course, because I am too well protected, they'll want to nick off any suitor I could possibly have."

"But wasn't Ami protected as well?"

Harry laughed a bit and shook his head, "He never wanted to protection—body guards, security, none of that. He wanted to be a solo bird, as he called it." He laughed at the memory of Ami and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, "God damn, I miss him so much sometimes." He muttered to himself, sniffing. He looked up at me again and shook his head,

"And that's why you can't be in love with me. I can't—it would be complete shit if something bad happened to you, Louis. It's already happened to me once; I can't let it happen again."

I cocked my head to the side and raised my eyebrow, "Are you saying…are you saying you care about me?" I asked seriously.

Harry blinked and nodded simply, letting his tense shoulders fall, "Does that surprise you at all?"

"A little bit, yeah. But at the same time, not at all." I said honestly.

"I was never like this, you know," He said, "I was never so hateful and a complete asshole. I…I care, you know."

I squeezed his knee tighter and I felt his fingers squeeze mine gently, almost reassuringly, "I know. I care about you too."

Harry nodded and faced me with compassionate eyes, "I know." He said with a gentle smile, "But…but that's why you can't have these feelings for me. Just…just make them stop."

I shook my head and laughed, "I'm afraid it's not that easy."

"Don't you realize the danger you are putting yourself in?" Harry cried. "Don't you see how we can't work?"

"Don't _you_ realize that I don't care about being put in danger?" I returned. "I'm willing to go through whatever I have to for you."

"You're crazy to think that." Harry warned darkly, "Only a fool would do something like that for me, after the way I've been lately."

"Then call me a fool." I proclaimed.

"You're an idiot." Harry spat.

I rolled my eyes and stood up, standing in front of him and bending down, so my hands were on his knees as I leaned towards him. Our eyes connected and I raised my eyebrow,

"You have to admit, you like me."

Harry blushed but kept his cool, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, "Who said?" He scoffed.

"I said it." I pressed my fingers deeper into his skin and he yelped, which caused me to smirk, "You said you cared about me."

"S—so?"

"And you kissed me."

"We were drunk! And you kissed me back!" Harry pointed out.

"Ah, but you kissed me first," I smirked, vindictive in the thought that I had finally one-upped Harry.

Harry scowled in defeat and looked away from me. He blushed again, "Fine, okay. I did kiss you that night, because I damn fucking wanted to. And I'm not going to lie; I liked it a whole fucking lot. But what is your point, Tommo?" He frowned and looked up at me with blaring eyes. However, I couldn't help but smirk— so he had lied about regretting kissing me.

That fact alone gave me the willpower to fight for him even harder.

"My point is that if you like me, and I obviously have feelings for you, then why can't this work?"

Harry pushed me off him slightly and stood up, so that our chests were touching,

"It can't work because someone will hurt you. And I can't stop them from hurting you. Ami died because he had feelings for me…there seems to be a pattern, don't you see it?"

"I think you're being paranoid. We'll get protection, I'll make sure we're safe—"

"You won't be able to do anything! It won't work! Nothing will work! Those guys who killed Ami are clever. They will find out, then they will find you, and then they will hurt you. They will hurt you because they know…they know you being gone will hurt me—don't you _fucking _get it?"

"I do, Harry, but I don't care! Don't _you_ fucking get it? You cannot live your life this way—you cannot sacrifice your happiness for the sake of someone else. You've been miserable for nine months and god damn it Harry, _you deserve to be happy_!"

Harry shook his head and looked down again, "How could you say that after I've treated you?"

I lifted his chin with my finger, forcing him to look me in the eye, "Everyone deserves to be happy. I know the person you were when I first got here isn't the person you really are. You're allowed to be happy—don't let the things you've done in the past guilt you into thinking otherwise."

Harry laughed to himself and looked away from me, "I—I can't help it. I—I don't know how to be happy anymore."

I smiled and let my hand cup his cheek. He flinched at my touch, but relaxed only a moment later when my thumb began to rub against his flushed cheek.

Our eyes locked and I felt my heart beat faster with every moment that passed. It was then that I noticed how close in proximity we were, and how badly I never wanted to let him go. He was having another vulnerable moment—and I saw something I had never seen in him before.

Compassion.

I couldn't help myself—it was one of those things I couldn't control. Things were silent between us, but everything felt right.

I felt myself lean into him, my free hand shakily gripping his waist. Our eyes were still locked, yet he began to lean in as well, his eyes closing and my hand still on his cheek, "Let me show you how to be happy…" I whispered, before closing the space between us completely and letting my lips brush against his.

It was a fast kiss—too fast. Yet at the same time, all of the worry and anxiousness we were both feeling seemed to slip away and fall into nothingness. Instead of feeling odd and uncomfortable like I did after our first drunken kiss, this time I felt as though we were on top of the world—because I was kissing him, and he was kissing me back and the kiss actually meant something to him.

It was only a matter of seconds later that he pushed me away from him lightly, breaking our kiss. I opened my eyes and looked at him with a confused glance, and he shook his head, giving me a sad smile,

"…I can't do this."

I frowned and felt my heart crumple and drop for the millionth time, "Why not? It's—I thought it was something we both wanted—"

"It is_, believe me_, it is," Harry said, placing a light hand on my shoulder, "You know I care about you and you know how I feel, it's just—" He paused, "I just…can't right now. I…need time. To," He waved his hand, "Sort everything out."

"What do you need to do?"

Harry ran a hand through his hair, "I need to talk to the boys—apologize, you know. I need to talk to Simon. I need to…I need to get help."

"I'll help you—" I immediately offered, but he shook his head and smiled at me,

"I know. But I need to get myself in order before I make any type of commitment to you."

"You don't have to do anything—" I protested.

"I know, but I want to. Will…will you wait for me?"

I sighed. If it meant getting Harry in the end, then who was I to deny him the things he thought he needed in order to be happy?

I ruffled his hair lovingly, and my hand went to his cheek again. Our eyes locked and we smiled genuinely and lovingly at each other for the first time,

"Of course I will."


	12. Epilogue

_Two Months Later_

Louis sat at the breakfast bar in the flat he and Harry still shared. He sipped his evening tea and flipped over the newspaper he was reading, smiling to himself at the headline that caught his sight,

**One Direction's Louis Tomlinson writes new single alongside band mate Harry Styles!**

He folded the paper over and sighed happily. The past two months had been one hell of a whirlwind for him—with Harry going to therapy and getting more accustomed to being in One Direction. However, he loved every single minute of it. He loved the rush of the interviews, the press, the music, and the people he got to see every day.

One of those people being Harry Styles.

He had to admit, although the past two months had been fun, they had also been quite confusing when it came to Harry and their…'relationship.'

The two boys had gotten _a lot_ closer the past two months. But what confused Louis were the lingering looks from the younger boy, and the extra touches he gave him, among other things.

Louis wanted to be with Harry, and while Harry asked him to wait for him, Louis wasn't sure when the waiting would stop, and he was dying to know when he was finally going to be able to _do_ something.

Louis heard the front door handle jiggle and his heart leaped, knowing that the only person who could be coming through the door was—

"Harry!"

Harry pulled his key out of the door and smiled, making sure to close the door behind him as he walked into the kitchen,

"Hey Tommo."

Louis bit back a smile. Ah, the nickname would never get old.

He saw Harry exit the kitchen with an apple and he sat next to Louis at the bar. He took a big bite of the apple and nodded towards the paper,

"Whatcha reading?" Harry asked, his breath dancing across Louis' neck as he read over his shoulder.

"The paper." Louis said smartly.

"Obviously," Harry teased, "What's in the paper this fine evening?"

Louis smirked and showed him the headline, "See for yourself."

Louis handed him the paper and Harry took it out of his hands, smiling as he read the headline.

"Well would you look at that."

"I think we might be famous, or something." Louis teased.

Harry laughed, "Yeah,_ something_ like that."

The two shared a soft look, and Louis' lips curved upwards before Harry looked down, ruffling his hair and shifting in his seat.

Louis sighed and sipped his tea, watching Harry out of the corner of his eye. He had so much he wanted to ask Harry, and so many things he wanted to say to him. But he knew he had to wait, and that he couldn't rush things with the boy if he didn't want to him to push away.

Luckily for him, he didn't have to wait much longer.

"…so, today was my last day of therapy."

Louis almost choked on his tea at his words, surprised that Harry had brought up his therapy, as it wasn't something he liked to talk about.

"It...it was?"

Harry nodded and folded his hands on the table, "Yeah, my therapist, Dr. Masdra, thought I should tell you."

"Why would she tell you that?" Louis asked, suddenly feeling his stomach turn over. Harry never spoke of his therapy, or anything about that day two months ago when Harry decided he needed help.

And when Louis told him he loved him.

Harry cleared his throat, "Well, I…I talked a lot about you…in my therapy. And she thought you should be the first to know I don't have to go back anymore."

Louis swallowed thickly and smiled at Harry, who didn't blink as his eyes pierced Louis',

"You talk a lot about me?"

"Yeah." Harry rolled his eyes.

"What did you say about me?"

Harry smirked, "Enough."

Louis rolled his eyes, "And that's all you'll tell me, right?"

Harry nodded, "Obviously."

Louis frowned, but decided not to push, "So what else did you talk about when you were going?"

"Oh, you know…things."

"Like?" Louis asked.

Harry ran a hand through his hair and wrung his hands again, "Like…like how everyone knew Ami was murdered, but they didn't know I was there—that I witnessed everything. How I needed to stop blaming myself," A pause, "How…how I couldn't let something that happened almost a year ago stop me from being happy and getting the things I want…just because I felt like I didn't deserve it."

Louis felt his heart flutter, as those words could only mean one thing,

"And what do you want?"

Harry shrugged and scratched the back of his neck, giving him a knowing look, "I think you know the answer to that question, Louis."

Louis breathed a sigh of relief, and was about to speak when something interrupted him—

_RIIIIIIING!_

The hell?

_RIIIIIIING!_

Louis looked at Harry in confusion and the younger boy closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked up, and gave the ceiling a look that almost asked, "why me?" before taking his cell phone out of his pocket,

"Sorry Louis, its Simon. Do you mind…?"

Louis shook his head, "'Course not." Harry nodded and tapped the 'Answer Call' button on his phone.

"Hello?"

Louis watched as Harry got up from his seat and nodded along with whatever Simon was saying, and Louis took the time to ponder what had literally just happened.

Louis had asked what Harry had wanted. And Harry said Louis should know what he wanted. Louis, still trying not to get his hopes up (as they were already high as it is), ran through a list in his head of anything and everything Harry could possibly want that would make him happy—

A #1 album.

A cat.

…two cats.

New hair crème.

A nicer flat.

A car for his mum—

"_**What?**__"_

Louis' train of thought was broken by the change of Harry's tone. He was staring at Louis with wide eyes now. His face was broken, and the curly haired boy squeezed his eyes shut as Simon continued to talk to him over the phone. He covered his mouth with his hand to hold back a sob that was threatening to escape.

"Are…are you sure it's the right-?"

He was cut off by Simon and Harry began pacing, nodding as Simon continued to talk. Finally, after a few more moments of Harry pacing, he came to an abrupt halt and he stopped dead in his tracks. He took a deep breath and looked up to the ceiling, a watery grin appearing on his features,

"This is _fucking_ unbelieva—no, no let—let me tell him," He shot a look to Louis, and then he looked to the floor, clutching the phone tighter in his grasp, "Yeah, okay, sure, thanks, Simon."

Harry took the phone away from his ear and pressed the "End Call" button. He ruffled his hair and sniffed, wiping his moist eyes.

Louis swallowed thickly, not sure if he should comfort Harry, for he again, didn't want to push him away. But yet, he couldn't help but want to cuddle the boy, who was obviously in a state of emotion by whatever Simon had to say.

Louis prepared himself to ask Harry what Simon had said, but Harry beat him to it. His voice was shaky and his chin was quivering as he spoke, his eyes shining with amazement and shock,

"Ami's killers were caught and arrested last night."

The words hit Louis like a bullet—soaring straight into him and piercing his heart. He sucked in a deep breath, dragging a hand down his face and exhaling his breath, letting all of the tension that was built up inside leave him.

Ami's killers were arrested. They were going to get the punishment they deserved for killing Ami Shane.

For killing a musical icon.

For killing a man who was adored by many—and by Harry.

For putting Harry through an emotionally destructive path for the past eleven months.

Louis continued to look into Harry's deep green eyes, and after a few moments of silence, Louis' face broke out into a small smile, his eye illuminating with relief.

…and that's when Harry broke down.

When Harry tried to reciprocate the smile, the tears that were forming in his eyes unwilling began to stream down his face at a rapid pace. At the sight of this, Louis couldn't give a damn about boundaries. He rushed over to Harry and pulled Harry into a tight hug—the closest thing to contact the two boys had had since their talk two months ago.

Louis' arms wrapped around Harry's neck, and he pulled Harry's face into his shoulder. He rubbed his soft hands up and down Harry's back, letting one of his hands trail up into his curls. He caressed his head and rubbed his back in an attempt to soothe him.

Harry immediately melted into Louis' embrace. While Louis' arms slipped around his slender neck, Harry's arms wandered around Louis' midsection, pulling him as close to him as he could. He buried his face into the crook of his neck and he let the tears spill freely onto Louis' striped t-shirt. Every tear that fell was a weight off of the younger boys shoulders, and Louis could tell by the lightness he felt emitting off of him that he was finally letting everything go through his crying.

Louis only gripped the boy tighter, and muttered sweet words into his ear, trying to calm him down, all the while, his mind was buzzing.

Was it horrible and insensitive to think of what the news meant for him and Harry? Probably, but Louis didn't care. While he was extremely elated about the fact that the murderers were no longer on the loose terrorizing and killing people, his mind couldn't stop itself from flashing images of what this could potentially do to the relationship he had with Harry.

They…they could _finally_ be together.

At least, he hoped so.

His stomach dropped at the prospect of Harry having to go back to therapy to deal with the news of the arrest. Louis, by watching Harry go through therapy, understood that different life experiences could cause people to want to talk to someone, which he understood. And he wanted Harry to get better and to be happy. And if he needed therapy to do that, well, Louis would stick by his word and wait for Harry.

But at the same time, Louis wanted to be that person who made Harry happy. He didn't want Harry to have to go back to therapy. He wanted to be the _main _source of happiness for him. And he didn't want Harry to have to go back to talking to someone he didn't know when he was standing right there waiting for him with open arms.

After a few more sniffs and a clearing of the throat, Harry pulled away from Louis and wiped his eyes,

"I'm—I'm sorry—" He began, pointing to Louis' damp shoulder.

"No, don't be sorry. It's okay. I'd do the same thing if I were you."

Harry nodded and shook his head, "I can't believe it. I just…_wow_."

"What did Simon say?" Louis asked.

"He said that they were arrested for petty theft of a convenience store," Harry began, "And once they were taken into the police station, and went through questioning, they went through a line up, and one of the officer's noticed that the two guys who killed Ami matched—they matched the description a woman gave the police the night of the murder." He sniffed and wiped his eyes, "And so the officer took them aside and…and they confessed to everything."

Louis sighed gratefully, "Wow. That's great."

Harry nodded, "Yeah, it is. Those fucking bastards are getting what they deserve…and…I don't have to be afraid anymore."

Louis cocked his head to the side in confusion, and Harry continued, "I don't have to be afraid of them coming after me. They don't have to haunt my dreams anymore, with me knowing they'll be behind bars in the most secure prison in the country. I—"

Harry paused as he tried to search his brain for words, and Louis watched him, admiring how much Harry had grown in the past two months.

"I," Harry began again, "I don't have to be afraid of anything anymore…and…and we don't have to be afraid either."

Louis' heart fluttered and he spoke softly, "What do you mean?"

Harry smiled, "What I mean is…you don't have to wait anymore. I…I think I'm ready now. I…I think I have been for a while now. But, now, I don't have to be afraid of someone hurting you because you are with me. I—I planned on telling you this today anyway, but, but then I got the call, and—"

Harry was interrupted by Louis' lips pressed firmly onto his own. At first, Louis was surprised that he had let himself kiss him, after months of holding back every time Harry batted an eyelash. But after the confession, and after hearing the words Louis had been waiting to hear for months, he couldn't find the will to keep himself from kissing him.

It was a few moments before Harry responded, as he had been shocked with the action. He slowly began kissing Louis back.

This wasn't like their kiss two months ago—where there was something missing and Harry was still fragile—this kiss was like a boulder; it was strong, hard and stable. In this kiss, nothing and everything mattered, and the kiss only sealed the missing puzzle pieces that were finally finding their place.

Through all of the shit the two boys had been through—the fighting, the hurt, the pain, the tears, the hate, and the love—they were able to come out of it all in one piece.

Louis only tore his lips apart from Harry's to regain his breath, and when he did so, Harry's eyes fluttered open in a lustful haze.

Louis ran a hand over Harry's hair letting his eyes trace the curves of his face, "Was that too much?" He said breathily, his heart beating a mile a minute.

"No," Harry shook his head, "It was perfect. It was perfect, absolutely perfect. This is perfect. _You_ are perfect…" Harry let his finger trace over Louis' cheekbone before he kissed Louis hard again, pulling back the collar of his t-shirt. Louis gladly gave in, smiling as his lips fit perfectly with Harry's.

They say porcelain, if broken, can never be fixed. It is fragile, and one wrong move or too hard of a touch can knock it into a million pieces, making it forever gone.

Harry Styles was human porcelain—internally shattered by a broken heart and disturbing memories that he thought would never go away. He was thought to be unfixable, and he was left to rot in his own despair and down a dark spiral with no return.

However, with the love of Louis Tomlinson, and his new found way to live his life, Harry proved them all wrong—that porcelain, no matter how shattered, could _always_ be mended.

* * *

><p><strong>FIN.<strong>


End file.
